5L1BRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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I UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. ! 




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POEMS: 



BY UNA. 

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CINCINNATI: 
S. a. COBB, BOOK PRINTER, TIMES BUILDING. 

1863. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, 

i" - ' " -t 

By the Authoress, V' w^ -is^ .-,^*>^~ 

In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court for the Southern District 

of Ohio. 



xs-z 



i-^ 



TO THE 



Most Reverend J. B. Purcell, 

ARCHBISHOP OF CINCINNATI, 



AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF THE 

aEVERENCE, ESTEEM AND GRATITUDE 

OP 

The Authoress. 



k^. 



CONTENTS 



Mother , 


7 


Come Back Again 


10 


Ruins 


12 


Ecce Homo . 


14 


Erin 's Lost and Dead 


17 


Snow 


20 


Dream-Life 


21 


The Flight into Egypt 


24 


The Olden Time 


30 


To an Ivy-Leaf 


32 


A Mother's Plaint 


34 


Burial of Isabella of Castile 


37 


Long Ago 


41 


Washington's Farewell to his Army 


43 


The Forests of the West 


46 


A Voice from Exile 


48 


Saint Agnes 


51 


After the Storm 


55 


Past and Present 


58 


The Exile's Return , 


60 


Via Crucis 


63 


Old Songs ... 


66 


The Sea of Galilee 


67 


My Native Land , 


69 


The Haunted Room 


71 


R.D.Williams 


74 


War 


76 


The Canonization 


79 


The Old Home 


82 


Our Flag 


84 


Flowers 


87 


■Erin 


88 


Beneath the Stars 


92 


The Lady's Leap 


95 


To Ma Mere's Jonquille . 


98 


The Exile's Dream 


100 


Spring 


103 


Help of Christians 


106 


To the Memory of Thomas Davis 


108 


Alone Forever 


110 


Work is Worship 


112 


Bernardo del Carpio 


114 


Our Mourning Motherland 


120 


Twilight 


124 



CONTENTS. 


VI 


Summer Showers 


126 


The Patriot's Vow 


128 


Water-Lilies 


130 


Heroism 


131 


Lament of the Moorish Maiden 


134 


The Little Chair 


135 


May 


137. 


The Departed 


139 


Lough Neagh 


141 


Gethsemane 


144 


To a Sister of Mercy 


146 


Saint Martin's 


148 


Falling Leaves . 


150 


Angels 


151 


Saint Patrick's Day 


152 


The Twilight of the Year 


154 


To Mrs. Sadlier . 


156 


On the Shore 


158 


Childhood Friends 


160 


The Silent Hiver 


162 


The Old Year 


163 


Across the Sea 


165 


The Cherokee 


167 


The Nativity 


170 


My Mother's Song 


172 


The Picket 


174 


Discord our Nation's Curse 


176 


Wrecks 


179 


The Songs of Home 


181 


Sister Agnes 


183 


The Beautiful Land ! 


186 


The Bird from Paradise 


188 


The Fireside at Home 


194 


Magdalen 


196 


Death 


197 


Poland 


199 


The Wave of Time 


201 


The Enchanted Cave 


203 


To Lizzie 


205 


The Dead Hero 


207 


The Passing Days 


'209 


To an Aged Friend 


211 


Rest 


213 


A Hundred Years From Now 


215 



POEMS. 



MOTHER. 

Mother ! it is a charmed word, endowed with 
magic power 

To soothe the sad and troubled soul in many a 
gloomy hour ; 

It sweeps the spirit's chords like songs of angels 
heard in dreams ; 

It opes the fountains of the heart, as Spring un- 
locks the streams. 

No voice like hers whose lullaby was o'er our cradle 
sung, 

Can soothe the heart by sorrow's stem, cold hand 
too rudely wrung ; 

No hand like hers whose gentle touch in childhood 
banished pain, 

Can fold the downy wings of sleep above the throb- 
bing brain. 



8 MOTHER. 

The world-worn spirit, wildly tossed by fortune's 

treacherous gale, 
Sees, in the storm, the friends on whom its hopes 

were anchored fail ; 
And, seeking rest, as to the ark turned the wave- 

weary dove, 
From smiling masks and hollow hearts turns to a 

mother's love. 

And, pausing o'er the cruel scorn of faithless friends 

to grieve. 
Cries, ** Mother ! mother! yours the heart that 

never could deceive ! 
Oh, but to lay this aching head, childlike, upon 

your breast. 
And, sobbing out my griefs, once more sink in 

your arms to rest ! " 

The outlaw, bold and hard of heart, with dark and 

sin-stained soul, 
O'er which the fiercely surging waves of passion 

madly roll. 
Though he the great All-Father's love and mercy 

fails to see, 
Can ne'er forget the childish prayer lisped at his 

mother's knee. 

While struggling on with weary feet to reach the 

cloudless land. 
Though wrong, deceit, and dark distrust around us 

ever stand, 



MOTHER. 9 

Thoughts of a mother's love lift up the head in 
anguish bowed, 

And shine out through life's darkest woes like sun- 
shine from a cloud. 



Her prayers, though long the mute, cold lips have 
lain beneath the sod, 

Will ever seem like guiding stars to lead us home 
to God ; 

They follow us through joy and woe, — they reach 
o'er land and wave ; 

The first beside the cradle breathed, the last be- 
side the grave. 

Compared with hers, all other love is like an April 

day, 
That folds its smiles and frowns at last in cold, 

gray mists away. 
As boundless as the universe, — pure as the heaven 

above, — 
Enduring as eternity, — such is a Mother's Love ! 



10 GOME BACK AGAIN. 



COME BACK AGAIN. 



Sad words are breatlied in this world of ours, 
That cloud its sunshine and blight its flowers, — 
Words of deep anguish and wild farewell, 
That strike the heart like a funeral knell ; 
But, oh, most mournful of all the words 
That wring a wail from the heart-harp's chords 
Is that low murmur breathed forth in vain 
For some lost treasure : Come back again ! 

The youth alone on the path of life, 
Braving its danger and toil and strife, 
Though fame and fortune may wait his call, 
Still feels a shade o'er his spirit fall ; 
To vanished scenes oft his thoughts will roam, — 
The dear old nooks round his childhood's home, 
The friends he loved, haunt his heart and brain, 
And bid him cry : Oh, come back again ! 

The flattered beauty whose lightest word 
By fawning minions with smiles is heard. 
Knows well those smiles veil cold hearts below. 
Like wintry sunbeams on mounts of snow, 



COME BACK AGAIX. 11 

And, sighing, turns to her early youth, 
When all the world wore the light of truth ; 
And, as her tears fall like autumn rain. 
Cries : Happy childhood, come back again ! 

Stern manhood, too, when life's noon is past, 
A lingering look oft will backward cast 
To his glad boyhood, its hopes and fears, 
To his young manhood's more clouded years, 
To those he loved ere his heart grew cold. 
And left true friends for the sake of gold ; 
Wealth brings nat joy, and he cries in vain : 
Friends of my youth, oh, come back again ! 

See, robed in splendor, the stately dame 
Who gave her hand for a noble name ; 
She pines surrounded by pomp and glare ; 
Her heart is not, and can ne'er be there, — 
A vanished form through her dreams will glide, 
A heart she crushed in her cruel pride. 
And sorrow wrings forth that cry of pain : 
Oh, glad, free girlhood, come back again ! 

The wretch whose heart is bowed down by crime, 
Whose locks are whitened before their time. 
E'en he can think of a long-ago, 
When his young soul was as mountain snow, — 
And memory pictures the old roof-tree 
Where oft he bent at his mother's knee ; 



12 RUINS. 

He cries : Alas ! were her prayers in vain ; 
Pure heart of childhood, come hack again ! 

Oh, far more lovely in childhood's houi*s 
Are the green fields and sweet wildwood flowers, 
Than all the glory that meets onr gaze 
Or gilds onr pathway in after days. 
The guileless vision to childhood given 
Tints all it sees with the hues of heaven, 
And when they vanish, that cry of pain 
Bursts from the soul : Oh, come back again ! 

The human heart is a restless thing. 
Forever roaming on Fancy's wing. 
Or turning hack to the days gone by. 
That memory holds to its longing eye ; 
And, let the present be e'er so bright. 
The past is veiled in a misty light 
That makes it brighter, and still in vain 
The heart must cry : Oh, come back again ! 



K U I N S . 

Rising from the earth's green bosom, 
Scattered over every land. 

Proud mementos of the glory 
Of departed ages stand : 



RUINS. 13 

Kuins of strong feudal castles, 

That have braved war's fiercest rage, 

Bow their heads like stern old warriors, 
Battle-scarred and crushed with age. 

Ruins, too, of grand old temples. 

Round whose shrines in ancient days 
Priest and warrior, king and peasant 

Bent the knee in prayer and praise ; 
Sanctified by saintly worship, 

They should stand though others fall ; 
But the hand of the destroyer. 

Time, is sweeping over all. 

Sad it is to gaze upon them, — 

Castle, cloister, shrine, and dome, — 
And to think that earth's glories 

Must at last to ruin come ; 
That with wrecks the passing ages 

All the universe must fill ; 
But each day we see around us 

Ruins grander, sadder still, — 

Fallen columns, crumbling arches 

In the temple of the soul, 
That should stand in primal beauty 

While unnumbered ages roll ; 
Glorious souls, for bliss created, 

Turning from their heavenward way, 
From a Father's love and mercy. 

Bow them down to gods of clay. 



14 ECCE HOMO. 

Wrecks of minds whose soaring pinions 

Ne'er should toncli eartli's dust and mold, 
Bending from tlie gates of glory 

Down to worship gods of gold. 
Mournful as it is to witness 

Shrine and palace crumbling low, 
Wrecks of God's fair human temples 

Are the saddest earth can show. 

But as round each moldering palace 

Close the sheltering ivy creeps, 
So the vine of prayer, upreaching. 

Still from utter ruin keeps 
The soul's temple, till its fragments 

By our tears be cleansed from stain, 
When the Architect almighty 

Shall rebuild them all again. 



ECCE HOMO. 

' EccE Homo ! " Rome's proud ruler 

O'er Judea's fallen land 
Thus addressed the Jewish rabble. 

Pointing with his sceptred hand 
Where the Saviour, meek and lowly, 

Calm and uncomplaining stood, 



ECCE HOMO. 15 

While the mob, by fury blinded, 
Loudly clamored for his blood. 

Ecce Homo ! At the pillar, 

Scourged by Pilate's stern command, 
Those He loved and blessed and toiled for, 

Void of pity, round Him stand ; 
No complaining sound escapes Him, 

Neither murmurs, groans, nor sighs, 
But a world of bitter anguish 

Looks from His forgiving eyes. 

Ecce Homo ! Eobed in purjDle, 

By His blood more deeply dyed ; 
Crowned with thorns, a reed His sceptre. 

While the cruel Jews deride ; 
Bound and blindfold, thus they smite Him, 

In mock-homage bending low, 
Saying, **Tell us. King of Israel, 

Who is he that struck the blow ? " 

Ecce Homo ! Mark how mildly 

Bears He threat and scoff and blow. 
While the tears of Israel's daughters 

For His wrongs in torrents flow ; 
See the crimson drops outgushing 

O'er His sacred temples fall, 
While the crowd, untouched by pity, 

For His death more loudly call. 



16 ECCE HOMO. 

Ecce Homo ! Aye, behold Him, 

See His look of silent woe. 
As the past and fntm-e ages 

Out before His vision go, 
As He sees what countless numbers 

Cast aside the cross and crown, — 
Sees His life-blood, shed to save them. 

Trod by pride and passion down. 

Ecce Homo ! We behold Him 

Bruised and bleeding, faint and lone. 
Chosen friends and loved disciples 

In the hour of trial gone ; 
Through thy streets, O fated Zion, 

Fiercer shouts of vengeance ring. 
Lord of all, by all forsaken, 

Earth disowns and slays her King. 

Ecce Homo ! Lord of glory. 

We behold Thee scorned, reviled; 
May thy sadly mournful story 

Make us humble, patient, mild ; 
Bind our hearts to Thee forever. 

That we may earth's pomps lay down. 
And at last in endless glory 

See Thee wear Thy thornless crown. 



# 
ERIN'S LOST AND BEAD. 1*^ 



ERIN'S LOST AND DEAD 



Oh, sad, sad art thou, Erin, my loved, my native 
land ; 

A plaintive voice is breathing aronnd tliy wave- 
washed strand : 

Thy ancient glories faded, thy children from thee 
fled. 

Oh, many hearts are mourning thy loved, thy lost 
and dead. 

Where are the many loved ones who braved the 

bounding wave. 
Beyond the stormy ocean to find a home or grave ? 
Some sleep beneath the billows, and many a young, 

bright head 
Is bowed in bitter weeping for Erin's lost and 

dead. 

A wreath of gloom the ivy is weaving, day by 

day, 
Above her ancient altars and round her ruins 

gray; 



% 

18 Erin's lost and dead, 



Unscared the wild birds nestle where festal boards 

were spread, 
And flit among the silent balls of Erin's noble 

dead. 

"Where are the prond, the noble, who trod her 

verdant plains. 
Bold hearts that never rested beneath oppression's 

chains ? 
Where'er the war-cry '^Freedom" was raised, they 

nobly bled, — 
The stainless soul of honor marked Erin's valiant 

dead. 

Gaunt famine crushed down thousands upon the 

sacred sod 
Where golden plenty flourished beneath the smile 

of God ; 
A hard and cruel step-dame deprived the poor of 

bread. 
And drained the very life-blood of Erin's lost and 

dead. 

Like Nipbe, she mourneth her fallen household band. 
Her arm too weak to shield them, or stay the 

slayer's hand ; 
A fearful weight of sorrow has bowed her queenly 

head. 
And tears rain down in silence above her loved 

and dead. 



Erin's lost and dead. 19 

Oh, mournful motlier, Erin ! thy heart is grieving 

sore 
To see thy children scattered on many a foreign 

shore ! 
But countless sainted heros, who for thy weal 

have hied, 
Still slumher in thy hosom : they are not lost, 

though dead ! 

Not lost, — for from their ashes a flame shall yet 

arise 
To light the march of Freedom along our western 

skies, 
And call the wandering exile to rest his weary 

head 
Where bloom unfading laurels o'er Erin's glorious 

dead. 

May Time, that bringeth changes, as seasons roll 

away, 
Eestore again to Erin the light of Freedom's day ! 
But, oh ! the beams of Freedom, on vale and 

mountain shed. 
Can ne'er bring back to Erin her loved, her lost, 

and dead. 



20 SNOW. 



sisrow. 

Slowly and softly it fluttereth down, 
Veiling tlie earth's sombre mantle of brown ; 
Ligbtly it drifteth in eddying whirls, 
Crowning each bough with a chaplet of pearls. 

Soft as the down of an angel's white wing. 
Bright as the bloom of the hawthorn in spring. 
Pure and untainted, its flakes touch the sod, — 
Pearl blossoms blown from the garden of God. 

Far are the folds of its white mantle spread. 
Softening the sound of the tempest-king's tread ; 
Hamlet and homestead in pure beauty glow. 
Wrapped in the soft, fleecy robe of the snow. 

On the dark brow of the sable-robed pine. 
Clusters of jewels, its brilliant wreaths shine ; 
Hill-top and valley in quiet sleep lie 
Folded in drapery woven on high. 



DREAM-LIFE. 21 

Heaven-born snow-flakes, the pure soul, like thee, 
Flits through the world, but from earth-stains is free, 
Brightens and blesses where'er it may go, — 
Beautifies earth like the soft, falling snow. 

Gently from heaven, its birthplace, it comes, 
Folds its white pinions around earthly homes, 
Seems for a moment to sleep in the sod, 
Thence on the sunbeams of love soars to God. 



DREAM-LIFE. 

How the human heart keeps striving, 
Planning, toiling and contriving, 
Grasping at the glowing visions 

O'er which Fancy's pinions wave ; 
Whether joys or woes surround us, 
Still our thoughts will stray beyond us, 
For we are a race of dreamers 

From the cradle to the grave. 

When with buoyant step glad childhood 
Gaily roams through vale and wildwood. 
Scenes still brighter seem to 'wait him 
Where his coming youth appears, 



22 DREAM-LIFE. 

For tlie rosy glow of distance 
And the force of Time's resistance 
Blend, and weave bright robes of beauty 
To array the future years. ? 



Youth arrives, — and still he glances 
Onward, onward, for he fancies 
That his hand will soon be potent 

As the magic lamp of old ; 
And he builds an airy palace, 
In which pleasure's glowing chalice 
May be freely quaffed when manhood 

Has the scroll of life unrolled. 



But at last youth's lordly castle 
Vanishes, with serf and vassal ; 
To the sterner eye of manhood 

Life presents a darker page ; 
All youth's rosy hopes have faded ; 
On life's journey, tired and jaded, 
Still he hopefully looks forward 

To the calm repose of age. 



Now the snows of age descending 
On his brow, foretell the ending 
Of life's trials, joys and sorrows. 
And in vain he seeks for rest ; 
To the years no more returning 



DREAM-LIFE. 23 

He looks back witli wistful yearning, 
Tlien hope guides his vision upward 
To the mansions of the blest. 

Thus in dreams we wander ever, 

Living in the present never, 

But with longing eye still looking 

To the future or the past, 
Till our heart-strings chill and shiver 
As the waves of death's cold river 
Put an end to all our dreaming. 

And the real comes at last. 

Were our lightest wishes granted. 
All for which our hearts e'er panted. 
We would still sigh after something, 

Discontented with our lot ; 
Still we fancy it but seeming 
When we are what weVe been dreaming. 
And unceasingly endeavor 

To become what we are not. 

Let us strive to grasp the real 

While we picture the ideal. 

And the while the brain is dreaming 

Toil with strong, untiring hand ; 
Vain are all our dreams of beauty. 
If we shrink from life's stern duty, — 
For the thoughts that bring not action 

Are but letters traced on sand. 



24 THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 



THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 

FOUNDED ON AN OLD TRADITION. 

With outspread, dusky pinions the night had hov- 
ered down. 

And silence calmly brooded above the sleeping town, 

And in that quiet hamlet, where all seemed hush- 
ed rest, 

The infant Saviour slumbered upon his mother's 
breast. 

Soon Joseph heard the summons that bade them 

take their flight 
Across Judea's mountains, wrapped in the veil of 

night ; 
And Mary, quickly rising, sped on her dreary path. 
To shield her priceless Treasure from Herod's tyrant 

wrath. 

The way was lone and silent, save when the night- 
wind's sigh 

'Mong the pale, whispering olives in a low wail 
went by ; 



THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 25 

All living things seemed resting in that still mid- 
night hour 

When a lost world's Eedeemer fled from his crea- 
ture's power. 



The exiles soon saw fading from view their native 
land ; 

At last their weary footsteps pressed Egypt's burn- 
ing sand ; 

The fiery sun above them his fiercest rays poured 
down, 

And evening brought no shelter from midnight's 
gloomy frown. 

Sometimes a lonely palm-tree on the wild desert's 

breast 
Offered the weary pilgrims a shaded spot of rest ; 
And when fierce thirst assailed them, perchance a 

bitter pool 
Yielded its brackish waters, their parching lips to 

cool. 

'Tis said that on this journey, in a wild, gloomy 

den, 
The hiding-place of robbers, of reckless, outlawed 

men, 
One night they found a shelter, and rude lips kindly 

gave 
The wanderers a welcome into the bandits' cave. 



26 THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 

The chieftain's wife gazed kindly upon the Holy 

Child, 
And viewed the fair young Mother with pitying 

glance and mild, — 
Surely some dire misfortune had driven forth from 

home 
These frail and helpless pilgrims o'er the wide world 

to roam. 

A large tear slowly gathered in' that wild woman's 
eye ; 

Her own loved babe was resting in quiet slumber 
nigh ; 

Ah, well might bitter sorrow on her sad face ap- 
pear — 

Foul leprosy had tainted the form to her so dear. 



Soon Mary asked for water, and reverently arose 
To bathe the Holy Infant, then hushed Him to re- 
pose ; 
And to the mourning woman His young face seemed 

■ so bright 
She fancied they were angels who lodged with her 
that night. 



A strange hope thrilled her bosom. She took her 

stricken one 
And washed him in the water where Mary bathed 

her Son, 



THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 27 

When, lo ! with joy she saw hiin freed from dis- 
ease and pain — 

The water touched by Jesus had cleansed her child 
from stain. 



Years passed: the child to boyhood, the boy to man- 
hood grew, 

And, though he loved his mother, he joined the rob- 
ber crew • 

Again for him she sorrows, and as her sad tears 
flow 

She thinks upon the pilgrims she sheltered long ago . 



Wild, reckless, fierce and daring, the youthful rob- 
ber's hand 

Wrought many a deed of terror upon the desert 
sand ; 

Though in his heart some feeling of good had lin- 
gered still. 

It lay all crushed and buried by a dense weight 
of ill. 



The noonday sun is gilding the hills of Palestine, 
And, bathed in golden radiance, the temple's white 

walls shine : 
Jerusalem, what meaneth that fierce, tumultuous 

yell 
Resounding through thy arches like shout of fiends 

from hell ? 



28 THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 

Alas ! those execrations that through thy streets 

now ring 
Proclaim that hlind Judea denies and slays her 

King ; 
And He, the long-expected, who came to set her free, 
On Calvary hangs extended npon the crimson tree. 

Earth to her King has given a cruel, thorny crown, 
And o'er His aching forehead the warm, bright 

drops roll down ; 
Fierce, brutal men stand round Him, all purpled by 

His gore, — 
Each drop enough to ransom a thousand worlds and 

more. 

As thus our blessed Saviour in agony and pain 
Pours out His life-blood freely to cleanse our souls 

from stain. 
Forgetful of His sufferings, he turns a pitying eye 
Upon the wretched robbers who with Him are to die. 

One answers with reviling, and scorns His pitying 

word ; 
The other looks more kindly upon our suffering 

Lord, 
And then his thoughts turn sadly back to his wasted 

years. 
His sinless, happy childhood, his mother's prayers 

and tears. 



THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 29 

But in the form beside him, the pallid, blood-stained 

face. 
The limbs all bruised and mangled, no human eye 

could trace 
The fair, sweet babe, so radiant with beauty's rosy 

glow, 
Who journeyed through the desert so many years 

ago. 

He sees the blows and insults ; the fiendish howls 
and jeers 

Of the bloodthirsty rabble are ringing in his ears ; 

He hears the sweet forgiveness our dying Lord be- 
stows. 

And feels that none but Jesus could bless such cruel 
foes. 

He prays that stainless Victim his soul from sin to 
free : 

'* When Thou art in Thy kingdom, Lord, remem- 
ber me ; '' 

Then sees His glance of mercy, and hears His pale 
lips say, 

^' My son, thou shalt be with me in Paradise to- 
day.- 

Where like God's smile so lately the glorious sun- 
beams shone. 

All now is gloom and horror ; earth seems to rock 
and moan. 



30 THE OLDEN TIME. 

And startled Nature trembles and veils her eyes in 
dread, 

And wrapped in robes of mourning weeps her Crea- 
tor dead. 

Soon from the side of Jesus, pierced by a cruel 

spear. 
Flow precious drops of healing upon the robber 

near, 
And the repentant sinner cleansed by that crimson 

wave 
Is little leprous Dimas of the wild robbers' cave. 



THE OLDEN TIME 



The dear old days of the long-ago, 

Their memory haunts us yet, 
Like fragments of some sweet old song 

That the heart can not forget ; 
Their hours rolled by in haiTaony, 

Like a silvery vesper chime : 
Bright pictures graved on the heart's broad page 

Are the days of the olden time. 



THE OLDEN TIME. 81 

As sadly out on the evening bell 

The knell of a dead day rings, • 

Some high resolve may strive to call 

From the heart-harp's quivering strings 
A stanza of our grand life -hymn 

In a strain of power sublime, 
But the notes are drowned in the tears that fall 

At the thought of the olden time. 

The friends we loved in the olden time. 

Although, severed far and wide 
By Fortune's gales, our life-boats drift 

Over Time's resistless tide, 
Seem near us still as some joyous laugh 

Rings out like a silvery chime ; 
For the hearts were light and the laughter gay 

That we loved in the olden time. 

When the pain and pleasure, stoim and strife 

And glory of earth are o'er, 
When the requiem of a dead world rings 

On the far eternal shore. 
In the anthem grand of a higher life 

May we join in strians sublime 
With the friends who made the hours so bright 

In the happy olden time. 



32 TO AN IVY-LEAF, 



TO AN IVY-LEAF, 

BROUGHT FROM THE RUINS OF SHANE's CASTLE. 

Oh, treasured leaf, though faded now thy green 

and glossy hue, 
Thou bringest up a distant land once more before 

my view ; 
Thou bearest me in spirit back across the ocean's 

foam, 
To see once more, with fond delight, the dear old 

scenes of home. 

I bore thee in thy beauty from thy breezy home 

away ; 
Lilie pearls upon thy satin cheek the glittering 

dew-drops lay ; 
For ages round a ruined pile thy parent vine had 

clung, 
And many a summer 'mongst its leaves the birds 

their matins sung. 

That stately ruin, grand and old — I seem to see 

it now, 
The long grass waving o'er the seams that mark 

its hoary brow. 



TO AN IVY-LEAF. 83 

While through the thin and scattered tufts morn's 
rosy sunbeams play, 

Like childhood's fingers wandering 'mong a grand- 
sire's locks of gray. 

Around its walls once more I hear the wild waves 
sob and moan, 

Chanting a solemn requiem o'er power and glory 
gone; 

And see the ivy's circling arms its crumbling 
towers entwine, 

As if to veil the mournfulness of grandeur in de- 
cline. 

Oh ! faded leaf, I prize thee yet, though beautiful 

no more ; 
Thy kindred tendrils freshly wave upon my native 

shore ; 
They wrap in Nature's drapery her fallen shrines 

and fanes, 
As if they loved each stately wreck of splendor 

that remains. 

Though snows have wreathed the mountain's brow, 

and summer breezes fanned. 
Since thou hast met the morning's smile that gilds 

my native land. 
Thou bringest thoughts of days and scenes I never 

can forget; 
For this, O pallid ivy-leaf, I dearly love thee yet. 



34 A MOTHER^S PLAINT. 



A MOTHER^S PLAINT. 

The starry banner waved aloft, the drums were 

beating, loud, 
And down the street with martial tread there came 

a stalwart crowd ; 
I gazed upon that banner's folds in anguish fierce 

and wild. 
For it must brave the battle's storm, borne by my 

only child. 

To say good-bye my Willie soon came bounding 

to my side. 
And as he saw the bitter tears I vainly strove to 

hide. 

He murmured, " Oh, it grieves my heart to give 

my mother pain ! ' ' 
My boy ! my boy ! I never heard his happy voice 

again. 

Then came reports of blood and death, of battles 
lost and won. 

And Fame upon her hero-list soon placed my dar- 
ling son; 



A mother's plaestt. S5 

And letters from my Willie came like messengers 

of liglit, — 
Their cheering words were sunbeams sent to make 

my lone days bright. 

One woeful day a sombre box was brought unto 

our door, 
And on its gloomy lid was traced the name of 

Willie Moore, 
And with it came a messenger the bitter tale to tell 
How 'neath the folds of Freedom's flag my Willie 

fought and fell. 

And there he lay, my only one ; as peaceful seemed 
his rest 

As when in his sweet childhood hours he slum- 
bered on my breast ; 

The scathing tempest -blast of death from which 
we vainly flee, 

Crushed the young sapling in its strength and 
spared the withered tree. 

My boy, it seemed that sleep, not death, had 

closed his clear blue eye, 
I could not feel that life had fled, I had not seen 

him die ; 
I saw no scar, no mark of pain disturbed the 

placid face; 
A curl fell o'er his brow and hid the fatal bullet's 

trace. 



86 A mother's plaint. 

But when I heard the cold, damp earth upon his 

coffin fall, 
Around my startled heart was flung the gloom of 

sorrow's pall : 
The dull sound of the falling clods his footfalls 

seemed to be, 
Eeechoed from the threshold of the dim eternity. 

My home is lone and cheerless now, my heart is 

sadder still, — 
The void within a mother's heart this world has 

naught to fill. 
O'er some the surging waves of woe with fiercer 

fury roll, 
The grief of others strites the heart, a mother's 

wrings the soul. 

Alas ! before the crimson scourge that blights our 

land is o'er, 
How many a mother's heart will bleed, but mine 

can bleed no more. 
It rests within my Willie's grave, and when its 

throbbings cease, 
I hope to meet him in a land of everlasting peace. 



BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 37 



BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 

A SOB of miglity anguish shakes 

The grieving nation's hreast, 
As, bowed in bitter woe, she mourns 

Her noblest heart at rest ; 
Well may she weep — her tearful eyes 

Can ne'er behold again 
The guardian genius of her homes, 

The morning-star of Spain. 

A cloud has fallen on Castile, 

Her high hopes have gone down, 
For Death has bowed the noblest head 

That ever wore a crown ; 
In lordly hall and lowly hut 

Griefs heart- wrung fountains flow. 
And over all the land is heard 

One long, deep wail of woe. 

Stilled is the high, unselfish heart. 

The great and gifted mind 
That with a woman's gentleness 

A hero's power combined ; 



3S BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 

Stern warriors bow their heads in grief, 
For oft that still, slight form 

With hope and courage nerved their hearts 
Amid the battle's storm. 

Cold is the open, generous hand 

Of her who freely gave 
Her jewels rare to trace a path 

Across the trackless wave, — 
She in whose name the flag of Spain 

Beside the cross unfurled 
Its silken folds — the first to wave 

0*er the new western world. 

No glittering pomp of royal state, 

No proud and vain display. 
Accompanies that noble form 

To its cold house of clay. 
For she whose grandly regal soul 

Has to its Maker fled, 
Was self-denying in her life. 

And still would be though dead. 

As slow the sad procession goes 

In silence through the land, 
The poor pour forth their prayers and tears 

For her whose kindly hand 
Was ever open in their need ; 

For she in life had been 
To Spain a guardian- spirit bright, 

A mother and a queen. 



BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 89 

O'er Andalusia's fair green vales 

The tempest's black wings sweep, 
And wildly beat on her who lies 

In death's cold, dreamless sleep ; 
The mountain-torrents, thundering down. 

Go seething o'er the plain, 
Where the mad waters hissing roll 

Around that funeral train. 

No sunbeam cheers their path by day, 

No star by night appears, — 
It seems that Nature's saddened eyes 

Are blinded by her tears, 
For over all the land is flung 

A pall of darkest gloom, 
While she who was its life and light 

Is carried to the tomb. 

At last Alhambra's crimson towers 

'Gainst the gray sky are seen ; 
Where, throned 'mid dark green orange groves, 

Granada sits a queen, 
And she whose fortitude and faith. 

Whose hope and courage high 
Regained it from the Moslem foe, 

Comes in its dust to lie. 

The dark-plumed cavaliers move on 

With solemn pace and slow, 
And as through the old Moorish gates 

All mournfully they go, 



40 BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 

They think of how they entered them 

In triumph years before ; 
Alas ! that she they followed then 

Should lead them nevermore ! 

High o'er the ancient Moslem towers 

The gleaming cross is seen ; 
Sadly the marble halls beneath 

Receive their crownless Queen ; 
The solemn requiem is sung, 

And in the cloister's shade, 
With incense, prayer and taper's gleam, 

The royal dust is laid. 

Religion mourns her brightest gem, 

Her shield, forever gone ; 
Spain weeps her strength, her star of hope, 

Her purest spirit flown ; 
All Christendom laments for her 

Now to the grave consigned. 
Who gave her every thought and deed 

To God and to her kind. 

Cold are the glittering tears that fall 

For perishing renown. 
Save when the good as well as great 

Unto the dust go down ; 
And 'midst the crowned and sceptred dead 

The eye will seek in vain 
One loved so well, so truly mourned. 

As Isabel of Spain. 



LONG AGO. 41 



LONG AGO. 

Oh, days of life's glad spring-time, 

How quickly ye glide by, 
How soon dark clouds sweep over 

Your morning's rosy sky ; 
Bright waves of Time's broad river, 

Too swiftly do ye flow 
With ceaseless motion ever 

Down to the long ago. 

And do our days drift idly 

Like sunbeams o'er tbe tide, 
Leaving no trace behind tbem 

Upon Time's ocean wide ? 
Or are tbey richly freighted. 

As from our sight they flow, 
With treasures for the future. 

Won from the long ago ? 

Or, as they melt in foam-wreaths 
To ebb and flow no more, 

Where golden sands are gleaming 
On the eternal shore, 



42 LONG AGO. 

Must their last breatli be wearied 
With sighs of bitter woe 

For bright hopes dead and buried 
Down in the long ago ? 

Alas ! bright days, too early- 
Goes down your noonday sun ; 

The night of death enshrouds us 
Before our work is done ; 

And many a path is thorny 

Where roses now might blow, 

Had we not idly wasted 
The days of long ago. 

Like scentless, withered flowers 
Upon a streamlet cast, 

Do aimless lives drift downward 
And sink into the past ; 

They leave no vacant places, 

For them no tear-drops flow, — 

They pass unknown, forgotten, 
Down to the long ago. 

Then, as our days are passing, 

And we are passing too. 
Let earth's vain joys hide never 

That bright land from our view 
Where from the bounteous Giver 

All happiness shall flow, 
And grief and death come never 

As in the long ago. 



WASHINGTON S FAREWELL TO HIS ARMY. 43 



WASHINGTON'S FAREWELL TO HIS ARMY. 



The Chieftain gazed with moistened eyes upon the 

veteran band 
Who with him braved the battle's storm for God 

and native land ; 
At last the parting hour had come — from prairie, 

mount, and sea, 
The glad shout burst from countless hearts : '' Our 

land — our land is free ! " 

Then up from every altar rose a hymn of praise 
to God, 

Who nerved the patriot hearts and arms to free 

their native sod ; 

The stormy strife of grief and gloom, of blood and 
death, was o'er, — 

The heroes who survived its wrath might seek their 

homes once more. 

With bared heads bowed, and swelling hearts, Ihey 

gathered round their Chief; 
The parting day to them was one of mingled joy 

and grief ; 



44 WASHINaTON S FAREWELL TO HIS ARMY. 

They thought of all his love and care, his patience 

sorely tried, 
Of how he shared their wants and woes, and with 

them death defied. 

They looked back to that fearful night when 'mid 

the storm he stood 
Beside the icy Delaware, to guide them o'er its 

flood, — 
Back to red fields where, thick as leaves upon an 

Autumn day, 
The tawny savage warriors and British foemen lay. 

They thought of many a cheerless camp where lay 

the sick and dead, 
Where oft that stately form was bent o'er many a 

sufferer's bed ; 
Well had he won the deathless love of all that 

patriot band — 
Their friend and guide, their nation's hope, the 

saviour of their land. 

He, too, saw all they had endured to break their 

country's chains — 
Their naked footprints stamped in blood on Jersey's 

frozen plains, 
The gloomy huts at Valley Forge, where winter's 

icy breath 
Froze many a brave heart's crimson flow, chained 

many an aim in death. 



Washington's farewell to his army. 45 

And, looking on their war-thinned ranks, lie sighed 

for those who fell ; 
It stirred the depths of his great heart to say the 

word *' Farewell;" 
He saw strong men, who, facing death, had never 

thought of fear. 
Dash from their scarred and sun-browned cheeks the 

quickly gushing tear. 

He stood in the receding boat, his noble brow laid 

bare. 
And the wild fingers of the breeze tossing his silv'ry 

hair. 
While to his trusty followers, the sternly tried and 

true. 
Whose sad eyes watched him from the shore, he 

waved a last adieu. 

Earth shows no laureled conqueror so truly great 

as he 
Who laid the sword and power aside when once 

his land was free, — 
Who calmly sought his quiet home when Freedom's 

fight was won. 
While with one voice the Nation cried : ** God bless 

our Washington ! '* 



46 THE FORESTS OF THE WEST, 



THE FOKESTS OF THE WEST. 

How sublimely rise the forests 

Of tlie noble Western land, 
Wearing leafy crowns of verdure, 

Twined by the Almighty hand ; 
See them rear their hoary foreheads. 

Toss their huge arms in the blast. 
Like grim seers that rise to tell us 

Of the deeds of ages past, 

'Neath their boughs the aged warriors 

Gathered round the council fire, 
Oft their shadowy aisles were lighted 

By the captive's funeral pyre ; 
Free as air the wild red hunter 

Roamed beneath their leafy shade, 
While they echoed the low laughter 

Of the graceful Indian maid. 

But the wildwood tribes have vanished. 
Slowly, sadly, one by one, 

Turning from the pale-faced strangers 
Toward the setting of the sun ; 



THE FORESTS OF THE WEST. 47 

Still tlie forests rise defiant 

Of the tempest-laden years, 
Like a host of giant warriors 

Resting on their battle spears. 



Here the monarch oaks of ages 

Seem the tempest's wrath to scorn, 
Emblems of the patriot heroes 

Of our country's natal morn ; 
For the arms and hearts whose prowess 

Britaiit's slavish fetters broke, 
Were as sturdy and unyielding 

As the giant forest oak. 



Here, midst tempest, toil and danger, 

Was young Freedom's spirit nursed. 
Till the splendor of her glory 

O'er the wondering nations burst ; 
Roaming o'er the world a stranger, 

Here she found a place of rest, — 
Brave hands reared her lofty temple 

Mid the forests of the West. 



Though the hands that built that temple 
Now are folded in the grave. 

Freedom lives, and still is worshipped 
Where the forest-monarchs wave * 



48 A VOICE FROM EXILE. 

Still the brave, free, cliainless spirit 
That aroused that patriot band, 

Animates the vigorous toilers 
Of the noble Western land. 

Grand old woods, sublime and solemn. 

Proudly spurning time's decay. 
Watchers of the toils and triumphs 

Of our country's early day. 
May your broad, green aisles forever 

Be by Freedom's children trod, 
And your soil be ever sacred 

Unto Liberty and God. 



A VOICE FROM EXILE. 

The god of day, whose blazing eye 

The earth' with glory fills, 
Has rolled his golden chariot down 

Behind the western hills ; 
Like hope's bright ray has passed away 

The holy vesper light ; 
Alone and in a stranger land. 

My heart is sad to-night. 



A VOICE FROM EXILE. 49 

The broken links of mem'ry now 

Are bound into a chain 
Whose golden windings draw my heart 

Across the Western main, 
Back to my own blue native hills. 

By ocean's breezes fanned — 
Back to my childhood's home and thee, 

My worshipped native land. 

The spectres of the dead years rise. 

And, in their misty track, 
From ocean waves and scattered graves 

My loved ones, too, come back ; 
Our homestead's ancient walls once more 

Resound with song and mirth — 
But strangers gather now at eve 

Eound our once happy hearth. 

Though dwelling in a distant land — 

The fair land of the free — 
Each breeze that sweeps thy mountains bears 

A dirge -like wail to me ; 
How can thy children's hearts be glad 

On Freedom's smiling plains, 
While thou art groaning, Motherland, 

Beneath thy load of chains ? 

The bitter wrongs that bow thy head 
And tinge thy cheek with shame, 



6# A VOICE FROM EXILE. . 

Are graven on thy children's hearts 
In lines of quenchless flame. 

On other nations' battle-fields 
Thy life-blood gushes free : 

Is there no resurrection, then, 
From living death for thee ? 



Oh, hapless mother of a race 

Of helots, born in chains 
That rankle in the heart, and freeze 

Life's current in the veins, 
Up ! — cast the shackles from thy limbs- 

In power majestic rise. 
Unfettered as proud Freedom's bird. 

Whose dark wing cleaves the skies ! 

Thy voice is heard, but heeded not ; 

Why stoop thy rights to crave ? 
Does Liberty her smiles bestow 

On w^eak or coward slave ? 
The voices of thy martyred dead 

Rise from the blood-stained sod ; 
They bid thee bow the knee no more 

Save to the throne of God. 



Now Tyranny, on crumbling throne, 

In abject terror quakes. 
And Revolution's mighty hand 

The earth's foundation shakes ; 



SAEPrt AGNES. 51 

No nation tamely bows th6 neck 
Or bends the conquered knee — 

Why shouldst thou crawl ? Thy fitting place 
Is 'mongst the brave and free ! 

The clarion voice of Liberty 

Rings over land and main — 
'Wake, Erin, 'wake ! and never sleep 

In slavery again ! 
Oh, while thou'rt trampled in the dust, 

Deprived of Freedom's light, 
A fettered slave, the exile's heart 

May well be sad to-night. 



SAINT AGNES. 



The morning's rosy fingers 

Unbar the gates of day, 
And bid the light-winged hours 

Speed swiftly on their way ; 
The breath of coming blossoms 

Floats on the wind's light wing 
It is the opening glory 

Of fair Italia's Spring; 



52 SAINT AGNES. 

Thougli Rome sits robed in beauty. 
And sunshine gilds ber domes, 

A fearful tempest rages 

Around ber beartbs and bomes. 

Witbin tbe crowded Forum 

A sligbt and cbildisb form, 
Witb fearless beart, serenely 

Awaits tbe coming storm ; 
Tbe gazing crowd sbe sees not, 

Nor beeds tbe judge^s frown ; 
Her 'raptured eye can only 

Bebold tbe martyr's crown. 
And see tbe glorious victims 

Wbose steps bave gone before. 
And traced in blood a patbway 

To tbe eternal sbore. 

Tbe guileless grace of cbildbood 

Yet lingers on ber brow ; 
Unbound ber glossy tresses 

In sunny wavelets flow, 
Sbrouding tbe frail, sligbt figure. 

As witb a golden veil. 
And witb a balo framing 

Tbe face so calm and pale ; 
Tbe crowd look on in silence. 

And seem to bold tbeir breath 
To see tbe fair child-martyr 

Stand face to face witb death. 



SAINT AGNES. 53 

The judge on the young victim 

Looks down with pitying eye : 
" It grieves us, Lady Agnes, 

To sentence thee to die ; 
. Forsake this Christ who leaves thee 

To such a dreadful doom, 
And bow in adoration 

Before the gods of Rome ; 
One single act of worship, 

And we will loose thy bands, 
And give thee life and freedom 

With all thy wealth and lands." 

"One only Lord and Saviour 

I know and worship now ; 
To blind and senseless idols 

My soul can never bow. 
To Thee, O blessed Jesus, 

Who canst redeem and save, 
Who oped the gates of glory. 

And triumphed o'er the grave, — 
To Thee my life I offer. 

In steadfast faith I come ; 
Accept my humble tribute, 

And call Thy servant home." 

With clear eyes raised to Heaven, 

She kneels in silent prayer ; 
She hears the songs of angels 

Resounding -through, the. air, 



j|4 SAMT AGNES. 

And sees the heavenly city, 

Whose gold gates open stand. 
Revealing to her vision 

The glorions martyr band 
That she is soon to follow, 

While radiant spirits come 
Down from the gates of glory 

To bear her safely home. 

. Upon the blood-stained marble 

She meekly bows her head ; 
To her the spot is holy — 

There countless saints have bled ; 
She thinks how Jesus suffered, 

Mocked, scourged, and crucified ; 
How, loving and forgiving, 

Blessing His foes. He died ; 
To die for Him is heaven. 

No terror can she feel : 
A moment more, above her 

Bright gleams the flashing steel. 

One quick, convulsive quiver — 

The golden head lies low. 
And o'er the snowy raiment 

The crimson life-drops flow ; 
A lamb upon the altar. 

Untouched by sinful stain. 
Such seems the gentle victim. 

Her deatb i^ npt in vain ; 



AFTER THE STORM. 65 

The warm, bright currents gushing 

From her heart's ebbing tide 
Baptize a thousand Christians 

Where she for Christ has died. 

Oh, Christ, how great, how mighty 

That deathless faith must be 
That strengthens tender childhood 

To cast down life for Thee ! 
Oh, beautiful child-martyr, 

Among the blest on high. 
When our weak spirits waver, 

Look down with pitying eye. 
And pray we may inherit 

Thy earnest love and faith. 
And walk through life as blameless 

As thou didst walk to death. 



AFTER THE STORM. 

The storm is past, and gloriously 
Shines out the setting sun. 

To give the earth a parting smile 
Before the day is don.e ; 



56 AFTER THE STORM. 

And in the calm blue eastern heaven 
The fleecy clouds drift free, 

Like pearl-barks with gold-tinted sails 
Upon a sapphire sea. 



As over field and forest fall 

The day's departing beams, 
Lighting with gold the waving boughs, 

And crimsoning the streams, 
Across the yellow harvest-fields 

The trees long shadows fling, 
Like plumes that Evening's hand has plucked 

From out Night's sable wing. 

The haze of twilight gathers round 

In shadowy silence pale, 
Shedding a softer beauty o'er 

The scene it seems to veil. 
And, one by one, night's starry lamps 

Swing out in the blue dome — 
Bright tapers lit by angel hands 

To guide lost wanderers home. 

God's little, feathered worshippers 

Have sung their vesper hymn. 
And silence walks with viewless tread 

'Mid evening's shadows dim ; 
The soft, light breeze upon its wings 

Bears heavenly peace and rest, — - 



AFTER THE STORM. 57 

Its whispering tones sweet echoes seem 
From mansions of the blest. 

Lord, with what loveliness Thy hand 

Has decked this world of ours — 
Its waving woods, clear, singing streams. 

And myriad-tinted flowers, 
Its ever-changing seas and skies. 

Proclaim Thy boundless love, 
And faintly picture to our thoughts 

The glorious world above. 

Oh, when the fitful storms that cloud 

Life's changing sky are past. 
And the pale twilight shades of death 

Our evening have o'ercast, 
O Sun of Justice, Lord of all, 

May Thy ne'er-fading ray 
Shed o'er the parting spirit's view 

The light of endless day. 



58 PAST AND PRESENT. 



PAST AND PEESENT 



Our hearts go back to the ages fled. 

As we read some old-time story, 
And we wish the vanished years would rise, 
With their hard- won crowns of glory ; 

That each laureled head, 

From its lowly bed. 
In its genius, might and power. 

From the dust might spring. 

O'er our days to fling 
The light of its glorious dower. 

Do we pause to think that the hero's way 

Was one of strife and slaughter ? 
That the rubicon round many a throne 
Was blood, instead of water ? 

If we emulate 

The departed great. 
Let them be saints and sages. 

Not those who dyed 

In life's red tide 
The shrouds of buried ages. 



PAST AND PRESENT. 59 

Of old the sceptre, dyed in blood, 

Instead of gold seemed coral. 
And victors trod on quivering hearts 
To grasp the lofty laurel. 

Shall we backward turn 

And weakly mourn 
For the days of strife and terror, 

When the arm of might 

Was the judge of right. 
And truth itself seemed error? 



Fame tells us now of the glorious deeds 

Of warrior, chief and peasant : 
If the past has had its great and good. 
Then why should not the present ? 

The same great God 

On sea and sod 
With boundless love reigns o'er us ; 

Our hopes and fears 

Are like to theirs 
Who trod life's path before us. 

Let us sigh no more for the days renowned 

In olden song and story. 
While the present holds before our eyes 
Bright wreaths of fadeless glory ; 
Who acts his part 
With an earnest heart 
Upon life's varied stages, 



60 THE exile's return. 

Gilds his own days 
Witli a light whose rays 
Shall shine on the future ages. 



THE EXILE'S RETURN.^ 

He comes from the far-off' golden clime, 

Over oceans broad and deep. 
In the storied land he loved so well 

To rest in his long, last sleep ; — 
That land whose ruins sublimely tell 

Of a grand, though long-past age — 
A land whose lap holds the sacred dust 

Of Hero and Saint and Sage. 

He comes to rest in the dust at last 

Where our loved O'Connell sleeps ; 
Where sadly o'er Emmet's nameless grave 

The Genius of Erin weeps ; 
Where fadeless shamrocks their tear-gemmed 
leaves 

Over Tone and Davis twine; 
Where Freedom slumbers in gory shroud 

With the martyred Geraldine. 



*The remains of the exiled patriot, T. B. McManus, who died in 
California, were conveyed across two oceans to rest in his native land. 



THE exile's return. 61 

And Erin rises, majestic still, 

Througli ages of wrong and grief; 
Her heart leaps out o'er the waves to meet 

Her glorious patriot chief ; 
But tears the words of her welcome drown, 

Alas, for her son so brave ! 
For his years of suffering, toil and love 

She can only bestow a grave. 

With more than a mother's love she folds 

Her child to her aching breast, 
Where, wrapped in the grave's cold majesty, 

Her patriot-martyrs rest 
Perhaps in her hour of bitter need 

They may burst Death's icy chain, 
As rose the Cid with his ghostly band 

To strike for the rights of Spain. 

A deafening cheer of triumph bursts 

From the nation's inmost soul, 
As the bright folds of the Green old Flag 

To her 'raptured gaze unroll ; 
Her dead son bears it from lands afar — 

O'er his clay-cold brow it waves ; 
The blaze of its Sunburst melts the chains 

From the limbs of groaning slaves. 

The Spirit of Freedom soars abroad 
On the morning's rosy wing, 



62 THE exile's return. 

The thrilling notes of her trumpet-voice 
Over vale and mountain ring, 

And tyrants cower in dread to see 
The soul of a mighty land 

Go forth in homage to one whom they 
With the doom of exile banned. 

Who dares to say that a land like this 

With a light heart wears her chains ? 
While the sacred fire of Liberty 

On her altar-stone remains ? 
While her heroes' graves are holy shrines 

Where she reverent bows the knee? 
While she gathers home her exiles' dust 

From the lands beyond the sea ? 

In the holy soil of thy native land 

Sleep on, true heart and brave ; 
Long, long shall a grateful people's tears 

Be showered upon thy grave, 
And ever dear to the nation's heart 

Shall be that hallowed mound. 
Till the startled universe awakes 

At the final trumpet's sound. 



.;.•- .. -^y. 



VIA CRUCIS. 63 



VIA CRUCIS. 

Oh, Jerusalem, thou city 

Of tlie Prophet- Saints of old, 
How thy sight by sin is clouded, 

And thy heart grown hard and cold ; 
O'er thee frown the heavens in anger, 

Startled Nature holds her breath, 
As thou leadest the Lord of glory 

Out to torture and to death. 

Hark ! what hideous yells of triumph 

Through the streets are echoed loud ; 
See the bound and bleeding Captive 

Hurried onward by the crowd ; 
Grave and noble is His aspect, 

Calm and mild His patient eye — 
Of what crime can He be guilty 

That they drag Him forth to die ? 

Where He steps, the stony pavement 
Blushes crimson, with His blood ; 

Paint and weak He staggers onward. 
Bowed beneath the heavy wood ; 



64 VIA CRUCIS. 

See ! His tottering footsteps falter ; 

See ! He falls, too weak to rise ; 
While around Him like a tempest 

Sweep the rabble's vengeful cries. 

Vile hands force Him up, and closer 

Press the thorns upon His head, 
(He who healed their sick and dying, 

And to life restored their dead;) 
Bruised and gasping, almost blinded 

By His blood, they drag Him still 
'Neath Jerusalem's proud arches, 

Up the steep and rugged hill. 

Blessed Saviour, though around Thee 

There were few to mourn Thy woes, 
Few who dared Thy steps to follow 

'Mid Thy fierce and cruel foes, 
Walking in Thy painful pathway, 

Sharing all Thy pangs, was one — 
Mary, Thy sad mother, weeping 

For her loved and onlv Son. 



Saddest of all mourning mothers. 
May we feel thy bitter woe ; 

May our sinful hearts no longer 
Cause our Saviour's blood to flow ; 

Pray that we like thee may ever 
Love and serve thy holy Son, 



VIA CRUCIS. 65 

And behold Him in His gloiy 
When our pilgrimage is done. 

Dearest Lord, when our weak footsteps 

From the path of right would stray. 
Shrinking from the painful trials 

That beset life's rugged way, 
May the memory of Thy sufferings 

On the road to Calvary's hill 
Guard our hearts against temptation, 

Give us strength to do Thy will. 

Teach us, Lord, that earthly pleasures 

Are at best but gilded dross, 
That the only way to glory 

Is the pathway of the Cross : 
Holy, sanctified forever 

Be the road that Thou hast trod. 
Hallowed by Thy blood-stained footprints, 

Our Redeemer and our God. 



66 OLD SONGS. 



OLD SONGS. 

Soothing as to the parched lips of the flowers 
The gentle fall of heaven's pitying tears, 

Are to the heart, in sad and lonely hours, 
The old, familiar songs of by-gone years. 

How solemnly up through Time's moss-grown 
arches. 

That span the dim aisles of the misty past. 
Swell those old songs, like grand funereal marches 

Chanted above dead years too bright to last. 

The strains we oft have heard in hours of gladness. 
Though carelessly from stranger lips they flow. 

Oft bear us o'er the gulf of years and sadness 
Back to the sunny days of long ago. 

They bring us back to winter nights when cheer- 
ful 
The firelight glowed on an unbroken band ; 
With thoughts of these our eyes grow dim and 
tearful -rr- 
Some pilgrims still, some in the spirit-land. 



THE SEA OF GALILEE. 67 

Not always do their notes bring thoughts of sor- 
row, 

Though they a broken household band recall ; 
We hope, upon the bright, eternal morrow. 

To meet our loved ones where no tears shall fall. 

The din of toil and strife, the city's noises. 
Where sweeps life's eddying current evermore. 

Are for a time forgot : we hear the voices 
Of loved ones dwelling on the eternal shore. 

Though life may be to us a desert dreary. 
That Desolation sweeps with tireless hand. 

Old songs of home are to the heart, when weary. 
As sweet founts gushing from the barren sand. 



THE SEA OF GALILEE. 

Oh, dark blue waters of Galilee, 

In the ages long ago. 
When the blessed Savioui' came from heaven 

And walked among men below. 
How oft He trod on the breezy sod 

That fringes thy sounding shore, 
Whose waves for Israel's fallen race 

Sob mournfully evermore. 



68 THE SEA OF GALILEE. 

When the trembling fishers paled with fear, 

As the night closed drear and dark, 
And shrieked to Him as the billows leaped 

Around their storm-tossed bark, 
The clouded brow of the heavens grew calm 

As it heard the Master's word. 
And the angry waves cowered down in awe 

At the mandate of their Lord. 

The scathing breath of a fearful storm 

Is sweeping our country's breast ; 
Each wave of strife from the fount of life 

Has borrowed a crimson crest ; 
Oh, many a noble hero -life 

Will that fearful tempest drown. 
And many a wrecked and broken heart 

In its angry waves go down. 

Oh, Thou whose feet have firmly trod 

On Gralilee's ancient sea, 
Beneath whose glance the waves go down, 

And the tempest's black wings flee. 
Look down on the stormy souls of men, 

Who struggle against Thy will ; 
Stretch out Thy hand o'er this sea of strife, 

And say to its waves, '' Be still." 

1861. 



MY NATIVE LAND. 69 



MY NATIVE LAND. 

I LOVE thee, oh, my native land ! 

Love is a word too weak 
The boundless worship to express 

That words but faintly speak ; 
Thou art an idol at whose shrine 

My soul must bend the knee ; 
Life were but death without the hope 

Of brighter days for thee. 

Thou 'rt beautiful, my native land ! 

Up from thy flowery sod 
Fair Nature lifts a smiling face 

To meet the smile of God; 
Thy giant mountains robed in blue, 

Thy vales in deathless green. 
Bathed in thy tears are fairer still. 

Our beauteous captive queen. 

Oh, land of hero, saint and sage. 

So sad and yet so fair. 
Thy limbs are bound with heavy chains. 

Thy heart is crushed with care ; 



70 MY NATIVE LAND. 

And yet, the more thou'rt made to groan 

Beneatli the tyrant's hand, 
The stronger grows my love for thee, 

My worshipped native land. 

Although thy bitter wrongs increase 

With every passing year. 
Thy sorrows to thy children's hearts 

But make thee still more dear ; 
Though forced far from thy shore to stray, 

On many a distant strand. 
From every heart the prayer leaps out : 
'' God bless the old Green Land ! " 



Oh, land of beauty, land of song, 

God's blessing on thee rest ; 
May Freedom's sun soon light thy shore, 

Fair Island of the West ; 
Soon 'midst the nations of the earth 

May'st thou a nation stand, 
With chainless limbs and laureled brow, 

My land — my native land. 



THE HAUNTED ROOM. 71 



THE HAUNTED ROOM. 

Weary at last of roaming, 

Back o'er tlie ocean's foam 
My footsteps slowly turning, 

I sought my dear old home ; 
Alas ! the well loved faces 

That made its walls so dear, 
Had lain in the green churchyard 

For many a long, long year. 

But though no kindred welcome 

Would meet me at the door. 
Nor glad words greet my coming 

As in the days of yore, 
Though changed, almost deserted. 

My heart still longed to see 
The one spot in the wide world 

That yet was home to me. 

'Twas winter, and at even 
Beside the hearth-fire's blaze 

I sat and pondered sadly 
Upon the by -gone days ; 



72 THE HAUNTED ROOM. 

I loved that dear oldcliainber — 

Naught there seemed new or strange, 

For careful hands had guarded 
And kept it free from change. 

I saw the fitful gleaming 

Of the red fire-light fall 
In pallid, ghostly shadows 

Upon the dusky wall, 
And busy Fancy pictured, 

Grouped in the gathering gloom, 
The forms of the departed 

In that old haunted room. 



My father, by the fireside, 

In his quaint, easy chair 
Sat musing, and my mother. 

In her old place, was there. 
Her pale, calm features wearing 

The glad, bright smile of joy 
With which she used to welcome 

And greet her wandering boy. 

There, too, was little Alice, 

Whose clear, blue, wondering eyes 

Cast on me, when I teazed her. 
Sad looks of pained surprise ; 

I seemed to hear her singing 
Some ballad, low and sweet, 



THE HAUNTED ROOM. 73 

As long ago when seated 
Beside our mother's feet. 



My loved ones were around me 

As in the days of yore ; 
Long years of life had vanished — 

I was a hoy once more ; 
^ Joy ! joy ! " I cried, when slowly 

They faded in the gloom, 
And left me sitting lonely 

In that dim, haunted room. 

That gray, old ghostly chamber 

Will ever haunted be, 
Although the welcome spirits 

No eye hut mine may see ; 
I seek its friendly shadows 

When bowed in grief and pain. 
And find my lost and loved ones 

Restored to me again. 



74 R. D. a^t:lliams. 



R. D. WILLIAMS. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

Another glorious star has fled from Erin's cloud- 
ed sky ; 

Another minstrel voice has joined the angel choirs 
on high ; 

Oh, heavy are our hearts to-day, and sadly do we 
weep 

Our country's noble patriot-bard, who sleeps his 
long, last sleep. 

We weep for thee, gifted one, too early called 

away ; 
The night of death too soon closed o'er thy bright 

meridian day ; 
Thy unstrung lyre is silent now ; thy proud, high 

heart is stilled ; 
Thy cherished dream — a land redeemed — is yet to 

be fulfilled. 

'Twas thine to wake old Erin's harp, to sweep its 

breathing strings 
With touch as soft as the light breath of passing 

angel wings. 



R. D. WILLIAMS. 75 

To bid it breathe of joy or love, or sigh low songs 

of woe. 
Or sing in strains of triumph high the deeds of 

long ago. 



Thy magic numbers thrill our souls, their notes are 

Erin's own — 
The murmurs of her summer streams, her torrents' 

thunder tones ; 
And if at last thy clay-cold brow no laurel wi'eath 

may shade, 
Thou'st left a glorious wreath of song that time 

can never fade. 



Alas ! alas ! our motherland, too oft thou 'rt doomed 

to mourn 
The bright links of thy household band, gone never 

to return ; 
And now thy tears will flow afresh : another son 

is gone, 
Whose arm was foremost in thy fight, whose heart 

was all thy own. 



The best and bravest of our land too early all de- 
part, 

For patriot fire lights ruined hopes that soon con- 
sume the heart ; 



76 WAR. 

But round them still our heart-strings twine, though 

they have passed away, 
As round our country's ruined shrines the ivy clings 

to-day. 

Brave hero -heart, true child of song, calm he thy 

dreamless rest. 
And sweet as if thy last cold couch were on our 

country's hreast ; 
This last sad parting brings to her but bitterness 

and pain ; 
For thee 't is joy, for thou art gone where souls 

ne'er wear a chain. 



WAK. 

He comes, the Destroyer, with rapid tread ; 
The clang of his armor might rouse the dead 

From their slumbers calm and deep. 
As he rushes over the hallowed graves 
O'er which the laurel yet freshty waves, 

Where a Nation's heroes sleep. 

He sweeps o'er the earth, and his lightning breath 
Scorches up Nature's fair face ; beneath 
The weight of his iron heel 



WAR. 77 

Proud cities and temples to earth are trod, 
And he changes the crystal streams to hlood 
With his bristling beard of steel. 

He stalks over Ocean's tranquil breast, 

And the bird-like ships, that so lately pressed 

The wave with their wings of snow, 
Quiver in rage, and with angry flash 
Their battle -thunders in fury dash, 

To shatter each pinioned foe. 

Oh, woe to the land unto which he comes ! 
There is bitter wailing in lonely homes 

For the loved and the brave laid low ; 
Dark Sorrow and Ruin mark his path, 
As his grim attendants, Disease and Death, 

Drape nations in weeds of woe. 



He tears from the mother her noble boy, 
The staff of her years, her hope and joy ; 

He leaves the forsaken wife 
To wQep o'er her babes in her lonely home, 
Where the loved one never again may come 

To brighten her dreary life. 



He rushes on in his dreadful rage, 
Unmoved by the sorrows of youth or age, 
Till his fearful task is o'er ; 



78 WAR. 

Till liis crimson harvest of mangled sheaves 
In the boundless storehouse of Death he leaves 
On the dim, eternal shore. 

And they who have roused the monster's wrath — 
Will they bravely stand in his fiery path, 

In the heat of the awful strife ? 
Will they draw the poison from sorrow's dart ? 
Will they gladden the mourner's bleeding heart? 

Will they bring back the dead to life ? 

All honor give to the patriot brave, 
The victor's crown or the hero's grave, 

Who battles in Freedom's cause ; 
But deathless shame to the wretch whose hand 
Would sink in ruin his native land 

To hide from her outraged laws. 

Almighty Father, whose bounteous hand 
Is stretched in mercy o'er wave and land. 

The crimson avenger stay ; 
Raise Thou our land from this blood and strife 
To a higher, holier, purer life. 

That shall flourish till Time's decay. 



THE CANONIZATION. 79 



THE CANONIZATION. 

[The canonization of the Japanese Martyrs, in 1862.] 

Lone motlier of dead empires/* throned 

Upon the ancient hills 
That rise o'er Tiber's yellow flood, 

What joy thy bosom thrills ? 
What strains of triumph proudly swell, 

And fill the listening air, 
While thousands on thy breast bow down 

To God in praise and prayer ? 

Dost sing some brilliant victory won. 

As in the days of old. 
When here the mighty Caesars sat. 

In robes of glittering gold ? 
No — like themselves, like all of earth, 

Their power has passed away ; 
But fadeless is the triumph thou 

Dost celebrate to-day. 

Thou singest the glorious victory 

Won by that martyr-band. 
Who for the blessed Saviour's sake 

Died in a pagan land ; 



80 THE CANONIZATION. 

Keen torture was to them but joy. 

And life but little loss, 
Since they the signal honor won 

Of dying on the cross. 

O holy martyr- souls, like Him 

Who on Mount Calvary died, 
Breathing forgiveness from the cross 

While ye were crucified, 
And telling those poor, blinded ones 

Of Jesus' boundless love. 
Who died for all, that all might live 

In bliss with Him above, — 

Through heaven* s blue curtains do ye gaze 

With deeper joy to-day, 
As thousands from all Christendom 

Their humble homage pay ? 
As o'er the great Apostle's tomb 

Your names are numbered down 
With those who bear the victor's palm 

And wear the martvr's crown ? 



Blest souls, where ye in far Japan 
Your life-blood freely poured, 

O'er pagan temples yet shall rise 
The altars of the Lord ; 

He said who wrote His new command 
Upon the world's great page, 



THE CANONIZATION. 81 

His Clinrcli should spread o'er every land, 
And live througli every ageo 

bark of Peter, stancli and strong. 

On Time's tempestuous sea 
Thou 'st braved the gales of many an age — 

There is no wreck for thee ; 
When to the pirate's evil eye 

Thy hope seems nearly gone. 
The crimson waves of martyrs' blood 

Surge round and bear thee on. 

Thy day of power has not gone by, 

deathless Church of God, 
Though, like thy Founder, thou hast felt 

The scourge of Pilate's rod ; 
Thou 'rt changeless as the sun that bathes 

In gold each glittering dome 
That gems the fair, majestic brow 

Of proud, imperial Rome. 

Cross of Christ ! in joy or woe 

Our hearts must cling to thee : 
Oh, could our dim, earth-clouded eyes 

The boundless future see. 
Our keenest pangs would seem but slight, 

And life itself no loss, 
If we might win a fadeless crown 

By dying on the cross. 
5 



82 THE OLD HOME. 



THE OLD HOME. 

Far o'er the blue ^vaves, in a sweet, sheltered val- 
ley, 
Where desolate monntains, wild, gloomy and 
grand, 
Wrapped in their blue mantles, mist-hooded and 
silent. 
To ward off the tempest like sentinels stand, — 

Close nestled, like bird, in its thick, leafy covert. 
The gray, time-stained walls of our homestead 
are seen ; 

The sycamores shade its thatched roof, and the ivy 
Has draped its quaint gables in garlands of green. 

The fishennan's sail on the lough's heaving bosom 

Is seen through the dark, waving boughs of the 

trees. 

While up from the meadows the breath of sweet 

blossoms 

Is borne on the wandering wing of the breeze. 



THE OLD HOME. 83 

Oh, there by the way- side the blackbirds and 
thrushes 
Pour forth their glad anthems to welcome the 
spring ; 
The hawthorn's pale blossoms are gleaming like 
snow-wreaths, 
Just drifted from heaven by an angel's white 
wing. 

There soft sighs the breeze 'mong the low, waving 
heather, 
Whose pui-ple bells brighten the brown of the 
moor ; 
The daisy lifts meekly her sweet, dewy eyelids. 
And primrose -stars gleam round our low cottage 
door. 

When winter lays bare the gTeen hedges, the robin 
Forsakes his bleak thorn for the ivy's dark leaves ; 

The crickets sing merrily round the wide chimney, 
While swallows are twittering beneath the warm 
eaves. 

By the turfs ruddy blaze, round the broad hearth, 
are gathered 
Light hearts and glad faces, when evening has 
come ; 
While story and song, and the gay laugh of child- 
hood. 
Chime in with the sound of the wheel's busy hum. 



84 OUR FLAG. 

Oh, rose-tinted hours of childhood, how quickly 
Your glittering pinions for flight are unfurled ; 

How quickly do shadows creep into the sunshine 
That Fancy's gold wand scatters over the world. 

Earth on her broad bosom has many an Eden 
Of beauty, but few do I see, as I roam. 

More fair than that glowing on Memory's canvas. 
And none half so dear as my loved island-home. 



OUK FLAG. 

Fair banner of a mighty land, 

Thy starry rays sublime 
Burst forth like Freedom's beacon-lights 

Upon the shore o£, time, 
And long with clear and steady blaze 

Have kept their cloudless way. 
Unmindful of the changing years. 

And fearless of decay. 

Thy radiant folds waved proudly where, 

'Mid war's terrific flood, 
Our infant Nation sprang to life. 

Baptized in heroes' blood ; 



OUR FLAG. 85 

Where sturdy arms and patriot hearts 

Cast off tlie galling band 
Of despot power, that serpent-like 

Coiled round this favored land. 



Thy stars have gleamed o'er war's red tide ; 

'Mid smoke and cannons' roar 
Thy crimson stripes were dyed anew 

In many a brave heart's gore. 
While* guarding, as a sacred trust 

From the Almighty hand. 
The cradle of young Liberty, 

Rocked 'mid our forests grand. 

And now, though clouds are gathering- 
Above thy glorious blue. 

And some bright stars, with fading ray, 
Are sinking from our view. 

To wander in a trackless maze 
Of fearful storm and night. 

The tempest will but serve to make 
The others shine more bright. 

The Nation's mighty heart is stirred 

As with a sudden pain ; 
Her bravest and her best go forth 

To shield her flag from stain, — 
To see its stars, bright as of yore, 

Shine over field and flood. 



86 OUR FLAG. 

Or quench their light on Freedom's tomb 
In the last freeman's blood. 

When History's muse essays with tears, 

In some succeeding age, 
To wash the fratricidal blood 

From off the crimson page 
That stains the annals of our land, 

Above her brow shall wave 
The star-gemmed banner — then, as now, 

Flag of the free and brave. 

Oh, soon may peace, on angel-wings. 

Be wafted to our shore ; 
Then all our stars, with purer light. 

And brighter than before. 
One glorious constellation yet 

In harmony shall shine, 
Encircled by the Orion-band 

That brother-love must twine. 

Great Ruler of the Universe, 

Before Thy throne we pray, 
Bestow on us that holy peace 

Earth can not take away. 
Long may our beauteous banner wave, — 

Long may our fair land be 
The refuge of the wanderer. 

The homestead of the free. 

1861. 



FLOWERS. 87 



FLOWERS. 

Heaven's pale, pure stars from the ether blue 

Look down with their twinkling ejes. 
And earth's star-flowers of every hue, 
With their beautiful eyelids bathed in dew. 
Look up to the evening skies, — 

Look up to the floating lilies fair 

In the calm blue lake above. 
And their censers, swung by the evening air, 
Sweet incense blend with day's vesper prayer 

As it floats to the Throne of Love. 

We fancy that earth's green vales were first 

By wandering angels trod, 
And where'er they stepped from the greensward 

burst 
Bright buds of beauty, by dewdrops nursed, 

And warmed by the smile of God. 

And mortal dw^ellers on earth below 
May walk like the angels there, 



88 ERIN. 

And beneath their footsteps, where'er they go, 
Bright flowers of mercy and hope may blow, 
And sweeten life's desert air. 



While here around ns, like angel smiles. 

Earth's beautiful blossoms lie. 
May we tend and scatter sweet buds of love 
And hope and truth, for the fields above, 
Where flowers ne'er fade or die. 



V ERIN. 

She sits, a crownless, captive queen. 

Beside the heaving main ; 
Around her brow a cypress-wreath, 

And on her limbs a chain ; 
And as the sorrow -laden years 

Drag wearily along, 
The mighty ocean sobs to hear 

Her melancholy song. 

She strikes the harp with trembling hand, 

And, as she sadly sings. 
Her tears like gems are glittering 

Among the wailing strings ; 



ERIN. 89 

The quivering chords that yet remain 

Can only tell of woe ; 
Those breathing strains of triumph high 

Were broken long ago. 

Down through the vistas of the past 

She sees, with tearful gaze. 
The glorious light that Freedom shed 

Around those vanished days 
When Art and Science, nursling yet, 

To Britons rude unknown, 
Were fostered by her generous hand, 

And sheltered by her throne. 

When Learning and Eeligion roamed, 

Twin pilgrims, hand in hand. 
By War's dread fury forced to flee 

From many a mourning land. 
They in her arms a refuge sought. 

And gorgeous shrine and dome 
Sprang up to give the weary ones 

A shelter and a home. 



Then in her radiant loveliness 

She stood serenely fair ; 
No sorrow bowed her sunny brow. 

Her heart was free from care ; 
By royal bards her praise was sung 

In grand and lofty strain ; 



90 ERIN. 

Her hosts were miglity on the land, 
Her ships upon the main. 



But soon a fearful tempest swept 

Her cloudless morning o'er — 
The Sea Kings with their savage hordes 

Came from their frozen shore ; 
They came to plunder and to slay, 

And fierce and deadly strife 
Did Erin wage through many an age 

For liherty and life. 

At last she saw her sunny plains 

From the invaders free ; 
The spoilers from her shores were hurled 

Into the yawning sea ; 
Each shrine and hall from ruin rose 

More fair than it had been, 
And laurels wreathed the radiant brow 

Of Ocean's peerless Queen. 

Then ages upon ages fled 

On golden wings away ; 
A flood of splendor Genius shed 

O'er that unclouded day ; 
Her sages bore to many lands 

Their stores of precious lore. 
While pilgrims from far nations sought 

For wisdom on h^r shore. 



ERIN. 91 

The wily Saxon came at last 

To curse lier sacred soil ; 
His artful snares were round her thrown 

In many a serpent coil ; 
One base and traitor-hearted son 

Was found her foes to aid, 
Like him who in Gethsemane 

His Lord and Friend betrayed. 

Then Erin's robe of green was dyed 

In many a hero's blood ; 
Unconquered still, where fell the last 

Another bravely stood. 
And though whole centuries of wrong 

And tyranny have passed 
Since then, each year has found her still 

Unconquered as the last. 

Her language a forbidden sound, 

Her ancient faith a crime, 
Her children hunted o'er the seas 

To many a foreign clime, 
Her very name a word of scorn — 

Yet all can not destroy 
The chainless soul that, unsubdued, 

Burns in her kindling eye. 

In weary bondage now she sits. 
Forsaken and alone ; 



92 BENEATH THE STARS. 

Her hoary locks and tattered robe 
By wild winds rudely blown ; 

But tbough the night be dark and drear, 
And hoarse the tempest raves, 

A glorious light forever gleams 
Around her heroes' graves. 

Her star of hope shines brightly yet. 

And never shall grow dim ; 
Her song of sorrow soon shall change 

To a triumphal hymn ; 
From tyranny's dead ashes yet 

She, phoenix-like, shall soar. 
In the full blaze of Freedom's light 

To dwell forevermore. 



BENEATH THE STARS. 

In the holy hush of even. 

When the day has gone to rest. 
And her cares and doubts and trials 

Sleep like babes upon her breast. 
When no busy strife or bustle 

The sweet, dreamlike quiet mars. 
Oh, what fancies flit before us 

As we sit beneath the stars. 



BENEATH THE STAKS. 95 

Starry jewels blaze and glitter 

In tlie night's imperial crown, 
Like tlie clear, pure eyes of angels 

Looking coldly, calmly down ; 
And the flask of pearly portals, 

And the gleam of golden bars, 
Pass before us in our musing 

As we gaze upon the stars. 

Ok, kad we tke mystic vision 

Of Ckaldea's seers of eld, 
Wko in tke blue scroll above tkem 

Tke great fate of worlds bekeld, 
Wkat commotions and wkat ckanges, 

Wkat fierce triumpks, toils and wars, 
Migkt we read in silver letters 

On tke tablet of tke stars. 



Wken tke soft, blue sky of even 

Seems an inland lake at rest, 
Witk tke gleaming, snow-wkite lilies 

Sleeping on its peaceful breast. 
Oft tke busy band of Fancy 

Puskes back tke golden bars, 
Till we seem to see tke glory 

Of tke world beyond tke stars. 

Tken tke fleecy cloudlets, floating 
In tke moonbeams' pearly rays. 



94 BENEATH THE STARS. 

Seem like wings of wandering angels, 
Slowly sailing through the haze ; 

Or like straying peris, drifting 
In their light, aerial cars 

From their paradise of beauty 
In the world beyond the stars. 

Starry lamps seem watchfires lighted 

By some loved, departed hand, 
To allure our wandering footsteps 

To the distant spirit-land. 
So that, looking through the dimness 

That the earthly vision mars. 
We may bow in adoration 

Before Him who made the stars. 

When at last life's toils are over. 

And we fold our hands in rest. 
As day folds her rosy pinions 

In the chambers of the West, — 
When its mortal bands no longer 

The freed spirit's flight debars, 
May we rise to dwell forever 

In the world beyond the stars. 



THE lady's leap. 95 



THE LADY'S LEAP. 

A LEGEND. 

'T WAS in the golden era past, 

Of wiiicli our minstrels sing, 
When Erin liad no tyrant lords, 

And owned no foreign king — 
The long-past ages that yet shed 

A flood of fadeless glory 
Upon the clonded pages of 

Her dark and blood-stained story, 
A stately castle reared its towers 

Beside Killarney's waters, 
And there a beauteous lady dwelt, 

The star of Erin's daughters. 

With heart as stainless as the snow, 

And voice like falling fountains. 
And step as fleet as the wild roe 

Upon her native mountains ; 
The sunlight of her ancient halls, 

The proud and great caressed her ; 
With generous heart and lavish hand, 

The poor and needy blessed her ; 



96 THE lady's leap. 

But all in vain to win lier love 
Had prince and chieftain striven — 

As easy 'twere to win a star 
From the blue fields of heaven. 

A point juts out beneath the trees, 

Whose giant branches meet, 
And there the lady strayed one morn, 

May's first sweet smile to greet ; 
Soon strains of witching harmony 

Came floating o'er the tide. 
And earthward, on his foaming steed. 

She saw the Lake King ride ; 
And as she heard his white steed's hoofs 

Upon the pebbles ring. 
Bowed every tree its leafy brow 

To greet its native king. 

His helmet, crowned with snowy plumes. 

The spirit- chieftain raised. 
And low before the lady bent. 

Who in mute wonder gazed. 
** Lady, I dwell where blazing gems 

Light ocean's deepest caves ; 
My courtiers wait in halls of light, 

Beneath the crystal waves ; 
When seven May mornings shall have passed. 

If thou to me art true, 
Queen of my palace thou shalt be, 

Beneath the waters blue." 



THE lady's leap. 97 

- Six Mays, with hawtliorii blossoms crowned, 

And robed in beauty, passed; 
The lady to her love was true — 

The seventh came at last ; 
She wept at leaving home and friends, 

To see them nevermore, 
Then turned to meet the Water King, 

Who waited near the shore ; 
Her white hand waved a last farewell, — 

Down from the rocky steep 
She sprang, and- ever since that spot 

Is called ^' The Lady's Leap." 

Soft strains of wild, sweet music woke 

The echoes on the shore, — 
The lady with the chieftain fled. 

None ever saw them more ; 
But when the bright May morning dawns 

O'er hill and vale and glen. 
And wakes to life all beauteous things 

To gladden earth again. 
Strains of enchanting melody 

Come floating o'er the tide. 
As on the morn the Water King 

Bore oiF his beauteous bride. 



5* 



98 TO MA meke's jonquille. 



TO MA MERE'S JONQUILLE.^ 

Pale child of the spring-time, thy golden stars 
gleam 
Away in a far, sunny land. 
And, warmed by the breath ^of that sweet south- 
ern clime. 
In fragrance and beauty expand ; 
Then what dost thou here, where the cold north- 
ern blast 
On fierce, icy pinions sweeps by ? 
Why brave the wild air of our chill wintry clime, 
Fair child of a sunnier sky ? 

Oh, sweet little blossom, out here in the storm, 

'T is love makes the starry eyes shine ; 
To gladden the heart of a friend, thou didst leave 

The land of the olive and vine ; 
Nursed there by her care, thou hast followed her 
here. 

To bloom 'neath her fostering hand ; 
Inhaling thy fragrance, she '11 fancy she breathes 

The air of her loved native land. 



''•' A little flower sent to Sister Stanislaus, of Saint Martin's, from her 
convent in France. 



TO MA mere's jonquille. 99 

The vine -mantled bill -sides of beautiful France 

May never again meet lier view ; 
But here, little flower, in the wilds of the West, 

She'll see them reflected in you. 
And often perchance, as she looks on your leaves, 

Her heart shall revisit again 
The home of her childhood, the friends of her youth, 

The land of the sword and the pen. 

Then offer thy incense with glad, grateful heart. 

Thy guardian's kind care to repay ; 
And here, in the shade of the cloister, recall 

Her dear convent-home far away. 
Long, long may'st thou bloom ere the angels shall 
bear 

Her off to the bright world on high. 
To walk with the blest in the gardens of God 

Where blossoms ne'er wither or die. 



100 THE exile's dream, 



THE EXILE'S DREAM. 

My lieart forever fondly turns to thee, my native 
land, 

And oft again in happy dreams upon thy shore I 
stand ; 

I sit beneath the hawthorn boughs, upon the 
daisied sod, ^ 

Or roam the old, familiar paths my childish foot- 
steps trod. 

I see the hoary towers that rise to tell thee of 

thy youth. 
The lakes that rest upon thy breast, clear as the 

light of truth ; 
The splendid wrecks of lordly halls, that tell of 

glory gone, 
Thy holy graves, where heroes sleep, while slaves 

must still live on. 

Thy beauty, oh, my native land, can never pass 

away : 
Fair as thou wert when great and free, thou art 

in chains to-day ! 



THE exile's dream. 101 

But 't is a beauty, oh ! so sad ! it makes the tears 

to start — 
Sad as the smile that wreathes the lips when 

Death has chilled the heart. 



But once, my native land, I dreamed a glorious 

dream of thee, 
That thou once more wert throned a Queen upon 

the subject sea; 
In stern defiance proudly rose thy towers and 

castles tall, 
While, fanned by Freedom, floated out the Green 

Flag over all. 

The thunder- shout of victory that rose from hill 

and glen, 
Might make thy old, heroic dead leap back to life 

again ; 
As Liberty's grand pasan rose above the ocean's 

roar. 
By millions 't was reechoed back from many a 

far-off shore. 

No more the pallid brow of woe bent over famine 

graves, 
No longer freights of human hearts were borne 

across the waves ; 
No more was felt the crushing weight of foreign 

tvrant's hand. 



102 THE exile's dream. 

But happy hearts and cheerful homes smiled over 
all the land. . 

Then 'mid the nations Erin sat, a nation blest 

and free. 
Her Sunburst floated, as of yore, afar o'er land and 

sea, 
And peace and plenty, hand in hand, her hills and 

valleys trod, 
For man no longer dared to curse a land so blessed 

by God. 

Alas ! my land, H was but a dream, for thou art 
still a slave — 

The cherished dream of countless hearts now pulse- 
less in the grave ; 

But Hope still on the altar lives, and like electric 
fire 

It leaps from patriot soul to soul, and never can 
expire. 

Yet, Erin, by the martyred dead that on thy bosom 

lie. 
And by thy noble living hearts, whose hopes can 

never die, — 
By the darkness of the present, by the glory of 

the past, 
1 feel that blessed vision must be realized at last. 



SPRING. 103 



SPRING. 

Again the fairy foot of Spring 
Comes tripping o'er the lea ; 

Young blossoms ope their dewy eyes, 
Her smiling face to see ; 

The streamlets gush in rippling play, 
The woods with music ring. 

And smiling Nature seems to say : 

'' Oh, welcome, joyous Spring ! " 

The broad folds of her emerald robe 

O'er hill and vale are spread, 
And at her touch the violet lifts 

From earth its drooping head ; 
The soft peach-blossom tints her cheek. 

Her brow the myrtle wreathes. 
And where steps the hyacinth 

Its fragrant odor breathes. 

When Morning from her eastern couch 
Comes forth on rosy wings. 

The blue-bird 'mong the locust boughs 
Her joyous matin sings ; 



104 SPRING. 

The robin flits from brancli to branch, 

And carols loud and clear, 
And all things round us seem to say : 
'* Bright Spring, glad Spring, is here ! " 

As bursts of liquid melody 

Gush forth from bower and grove, 
In gratitude to Nature's God 

For all His care and love. 
We, too, should with the joyous birds 

Our grateful voices raise. 
And make the duties of each day 

An anthem in His praise. 

Yes, Spring is here — with joy we hail 

Her sunny face once more — 
Fair herald of the Summer's bloom. 

And of the Autumn's store ; 
And as the buds in beauty burst, 

Touched by her magic wand, 
The heart seems, too, with joyous hope 

And gladness to expand. 

The sleeping earth in beauty wakes 
Where'er her footsteps fall ; 

And Nature's myriad voices blend 
In music, at her call ; 

And as the opening buds exhale 
Their fragrance from the sod, 



SPRING. 105 

The lieart its grateful incense sends 
Up to the throne of God. 

Dear God, who made this world so fair. 

What mortal e'er can tell 
The glories of that cloudless land 

Where saints and angels dwell ? 
Oh, may the fleeting loveliness 

That here on earth we see, 
Forever bid our wandering thoughts 

Ascend to heaven and Thee. 

Oh, glorious Spring, thy breezes waft 

The light wings of the soul 
From earth to where o'er golden sands 

Life-giving waters roll. 
Where seraph -choirs their happy songs 

In bowers of beauty sing, 
And fadeless flowers wreathe the brow 

Of a perpetual Spring. 



6 



106 HELP OF CHKISTIAKS. 



HELP OF CHKISTIANS. 

Oh ! Mary, Help of Christians called. 
Queen of tlie shining courts above, 

Thy children lift their hearts to thee, 
And trust in thy maternal love ; 

For thou wilt never turn away 

From those who for thy succor pray. 

Oh, mournful Mother, who didst stand 
Beside the Cross on Calvary's hill, 

"When our dear Lord for sinners died. 
And Nature's heart in awe stood still, 

Dark days of sorrow didst thou see, — 

Therefore in grief we turn to thee. 

When dangers " gather round our way. 
And angry tempests o'er us frown. 

When all the world seems dark and drear. 
Do thou with pitying eyes look down, 

And be a star to light the gloom. 

And guide our wandering footsteps home. 



HELP OF CHRISTIANS. 107 

* 
Oh, Mother of our thorn-crowned King, 

A mother's love we claim from thee ; 
Thou wert bequeathed to us by Him, 

Our Mother and our Help to be ; 
Then, Help of Christians, hear our prayer, 
And guard the children of thy care. 

Though crowned in triumph by thy Son, 
Queen of the realms of endless light. 

And listening to the happy songs 

Of ransomed souls and seraphs bright. 

Yet thou art not too high to know 

And sympathize with human woe. 

Oh, pray for us to thy dear Son, 
When waves of sorrow o'er us roll ; 

When dark temptations gather round, 
Sustain and aid the fainting soul ; 

And as we drift o'er death's dark tide, 

Oh, Help of Christians, be our guide. 



108 TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS DAVlS. 



TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Oh, pure and glorious patriot soul, 

In Erin's sacred mold 
Thy great and generous hero -heart 

Is resting calm and cold ; 
But still thy chainless spirit breathes 

In every passing gale 
That fans the brows of slaves that bow 

In mourning Innisfail. 

Though empires crumble into dust, 

As age on age rolls by, 
The memory of a life like thine 

Can never fade or die ; 
Thy grand soul in its mighty grasp 

The universe could span, 
Its daily worship — boundless love 

For crushed and fallen man. 



Like moimtain torrents, bold and free, 
Thy numbers leap along ; 



TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS DAVIS. 109 

Cold, cold must be the Irish heart 

That thrills not at thy song ; 
And truthfully did Erin read 

In every glowing word 
The hand that held that breathing pen 

For her would wield the sword. 



Pure patriot-fire, like vestal flame, 

Burned in thy dauntless eye ; 
Thy noble brow bespoke a soul 

Whose aims were pure and high ; 
Alas, that o'er that brow so soon 

The cypress bough should wave ! 
Oh ! bitter tears did Erin shed 

Above thy early grave. 

Among her worshipped heroes thou 

Shalt ever foremost stand ; 
When Freedom's glorious sun shall blaze 

Above our rescued land, 
She '11 pause amid her triumph, o'er 

Thy blighted hopes to sigh ; 
While her eternal mountains stand, 

Thy memory shall not die. 



Though now thy heart of fire is cold. 

Thy glorious spirit flown. 
Unnumbered souls have caught the flame 

That burned within thv own ; 



110 ALONE FOREVER. 

Soon up throngh heaven's grand aisles thou *lt 
liear 
A shout of triumph ring, 
When Erin bows to God alone, 
And owns no other King. 



ALONE FOREVER. 

A MOTHER stands, with breaking heart, 

And eyes that quench the light, 
Upon the shore where stood her boy, 

Now sailing out of sight ; 
The wild waves seem to mock her woe. 

And say she'll see him never ; 
From her wrung heart bursts forth the cry 

Alone — alone forever ! 



A sad-faced mourner bends above 

A cherished idol's grave ; 
Her agonizing prayers and tears 

All powerless were to save ; 
The dull sound of each falling clod 

Her heart-strings seems to sever, 
And grief wrings forth the hopeless wail: 

Alone — alone forever ! 



ALONE FOREVER. Ill 

An orphan lays liis liomeless head 

Upon the churchyard mold, 
Where father, mother, sisters sleep, 

With pulseless hearts and cold ; 
In this wide world the lips so loved 

Shall smile upon him never, 
And, clasping the cold earth, he sobs : 

Alone — alone forever ! 



The outcast, sick of sin and woe, 

^ Along the busy street 
May look in vain, with wistful eye, 

Some kindly face to meet ; 
Mailed in self -justice, pity-proof. 

Proud Virtue spurns her ever. 
And from the foot of Mercy's throne 

Would hurl her down forever. 



Friendship and love were idle words 

In this brief, changing life, 
Did they not span the gulf 'twixt heaven 

And earth's stern toil and strife. 
Were their bright links not knit too strong 

For Fate's rude hand to sever. 
Was there no land where loved ones meet 

To part no more forever. 

Sad soul, that o'er life's weary way 
Still gropeth darkly on, 



112 WORK IS WORSHIP. 

Paint not ! soon on thy tear-dimmed gaze 

An endless day shall dawn ; 
The bands of clay that bind thee here 

Death's angel soon will sever, 
And in the glorious world beyond 

None cry — Alone forever ! 



WORK IS WORSHIP. 

Toiling brothers, bowed and weary. 

Struggling 'neath life's bitter weight. 
Think not idleness is honor, 

Envy not the proud and great ; 
Noble is your humble lot ; 
Work is worship : scorn it not. 

Sigh not for the gilded glory 

That the crown or sceptre brings ; 
If ye rule the fields of labor, 
Ye are God-created Kings ; 

Many a kingly heart may rest 
'Neath a coarse and tattered vest. 

Though the Avoiidly great may scorn you, 
Ye are men — what more are they ? 



WORK IS WORSHIP. 113 

Have they not the same Creator ? 
Are they made of finer clay? 
'T is by noble deeds alone 
That a noble soul is known. 

Let the voice of prayer and labor 
Blend in one harmonious chime ; 
Useful works are glorious anthems, 
Toil is prayer the most sublime. 
Though ye suffer scorn and pain, 
Think not that ye live in vain. 

Think of Him, the '^meek and lowly,*' 

When in weariness ye groan ; 
How He lived and toiled and suffered, 
Poor, unhonored and unknown ; 
He, the universal Lord, 
Worshipped by both deed and word. 

Honored be the earnest worker. 

Blessed the rough, toil-hardened hand, 
While the glorious hymn of labor 

Heavenward floats from wave and land. 
Toilers, noble is your lot ; 
Work is worship: scorn it not. 



114 BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.* 

At last the foe was vanquished, 
The warrior turned his rein, 

To place his hard-won laurels 
Upon the brow of Spain. 

But soon a fearful story 
Of wrong aroused his ire ; 

His soul was wrung with anguish, 
His heart seemed changed to fire. 

Swift sped his fleet war- charger 

Till at the palace door, 
And soon his clanging sabre 

Rang on the marble floor. 



♦ This renowned Champion of the Ninth Century was the son of the 
Count Saldana, who had secretly married the sister of Alfonso, King of 
Austurias. The angry King doomed the Count to life-long imprieon- 
ment, and brought up the young Bernardo as his own son. The Cham- 
pion at last, on his victorious return from battle, learns who his real 
father is, and demands his release. 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 115 

The king, who 'mongst his nobles 

Discussed the victory won, 
Half rose to meet the hero 
* Known as his warrior son. 

Bernardo waved him backward 

With gesture of command, 
And cried, *' king, I can not 

In friendship touch thy hand. 

** I call thee sire no longer — 
Ah, why did I not see 
That thy cold heart had never 
A father's love for me. 

•* On many a field of battle 

I for thy rights have stood. 
And, while with my brave legions 
For thee I shed my blood, — 

"My own true, noble father 
In thy cold dungeon lay : 
If blood you ask, mine surely 
Has washed his fault away.*' 

Then spoke the crafty monarch. 
In accents soft and bland : 
** Bernardo, thou art honored 
As champion of our land. 



116 BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 

''The voice of Spain, in triumpli, 
Recounts thy vict'ries won ; 
'Twere sad to keep a father 
From such a noble son. 

**Give up, then, as a ransom, 
Thy castle strong to me ; 
My royal word I pledge thee. 
Thy father thou shalt see/' 

*^ Take all I own, my sovereign, 
But break my father's chains ; 
Wealth, power, renown, are worthless 
While captive he remains. 

*' My father, oh ! what anguish 
Must have been his for years, 
While stories of my conquests 
Were ringing in his ears. 

" How base he must have pictured 
The son who bled for thee, 
Whose arm was never lifted 
To set his father free. 

*' Oh, haste, to ope his dungeon. 
That I may hear his voice, 
And, after years of sorrow. 
Bid him at last rejoice.'* 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 117 

Time passed, and still in fetters 

The Count Saldana lay ; 
The wily king his promise 

Renewed from day to day. 

At last he said, '' Bernardo, 

Behold where o'er the plain 
Thy father rides, a free man, 

'Mid yonder glittering train.'* 

Borne on their arrowy coursers, 

Whose hoofs scarce touched the ground, 

They reached the spot where slowly 
The long procession wound. 

Low hent the youthful warrior, 

His father's hand to clasp, 
But, icy-cold and pulseless. 

It fell from out his grasp. 

With nameless dread he shuddered, 

And quick the vizor raised. 
And on the stony visage 

In breathless horror gazed. 

The silv'ry locks encirled 

A brow as cold as stone ; 
The mute lips ne'er would greet him — 

His father's soul had flown. 



118 BERNAKDO DEL CARPIO. 

He bent his throbbing forehead 
Upon his nerveless hand, 

His burning tears fast falling, 
Like rain, upon the sand. 

Stern warriors viewed with sorrow 
A woe so wild and deep. 

Amazed to see the bravest 

Of Spain's proud chieftains weep. 

'*My father, oh, my father! 

My life's fond hope has fled ; 
I came with joy to meet thee ; 
I see thee cold and dead ! 

" Come back, O soul that prison 
Again can never hold, 
And learn how that heart loved thee 
That seemed so base and cold. 

*' Alas ! too late I see thee ; 
In vain, in vain I call — 
A Heavenly King has broken 
At last thy spirit's thrall ! " 

Then, turning to Alfonso, 

He cried, ''Base monarch, say. 

Why hast thou brought me hither 
To greet this lifeless clay ? 



BERNAEDO DEL CARPIO. 119 

** Where is tlie brave young noble 
Thou didst in prison fling, 
Because he loved and wedded 
The sister of a king ? 

'* Where is the soul that kindled 

That form with God's warm breath ? 
My all was never bartered 

For this cold guest of Death ! 

'*A king whose soul is perjured 

Should cease to wear the crown ; 
The false and cruel-hearted 

Should fling the sceptre down ! '' 

The monarch paled in anger. 

And shouted to his train 
To seize the sword that often 

Turned war's red tide for Spain. 

The cavaliers stood silent, 

Awed by their hero's grief. 
Their dauntless hearts divided 

Between their king and chief. 

And soon they heard, defiant, 

The champion's proud tones ring : 
** Bernardo's sword no longer 
Is subject to a king. 



120 OUR MOURNING MOTHERLAND. 

*' And though thou hast by falsehood 
Won Carpio's castle strong, 
I still have the free mountains, 
The right to war with wrong. 

*' False-hearted king, remember, 
Long as this arm is free, 
I wage a ceaseless warfare 

Against thy cause and thee ! '' 



OUR MOURNING MOTHERLAND 

With heavy heart sad Erin, 

Beside the rolling main. 
Like Niobe, sits mourning 

Above her children slain ; 
She sees them fall around her, 

As by the moaning blast 
The russet leaves of Autumn 

To earth's cold breast are cast. 

She saw the yellow harvest 
Rise o'er the smiling land — 

The bursting sheaves were gathered 
By careful reaper's hand. 



OUR MOURNING MOTHERLAND. 121 

Not to reward the toilers 

There golden plenty waves — 

To them our land can only- 
Give chains and famine graves. 

Strong arms that find no labor, 

Now weak and nerveless fall — 
Arms that might wield a sahre 

To break the Nation's thrall ; 
Far better to die striving 

In Freedom's holy cause, 
Than perish, unresisting. 

By cruel, blood-stained laws. 

The infant's cheek, once rosy, 

Is sunken, cold and pale ; .^/ 

In vain the stricken mother 

To hush its piteous wail 
Essays vvith song to soothe it — 

The drear, death-burdened air 
Gives forth but hopeless moanings 

Of anguish and despair. 

The merry laugh of childhood 

Eiags round the hearth no more ; 

The aged tell no stories 

Of deeds and days of yore ; 

In hopeless desolation 

All sit while Death's cold hand 
6^ 



122 OUR MouRNEsra motherland. 

His sable pall is folding 
Around that hapless land. 

Great Lord of power and glory, 

How long shall such things be ? 
How long shall tyrants trample 

The hearts that would be free ? 
In life-blood quench the sunlight 

That gilds our glorious sky ? 
Rend from defenceless bodies 

The souls they can not buy ? 

How long shall we list coldly 

Our dying brothers' moan? 
Yes, brothers, though their faces 

Perhaps we ne'er have known ; 
Our motherland is praying 

Her children o'er the main 
To aid her in her sorrow — 

Let not her prayers be vain. 

Divide your scanty earnings, 

Give from your hoarded gold ; 
As Joseph saved his people 

In Egypt's land of old. 
Save ye your suffering kindred — 

Stretch forth a helping hand 
To shield from utter ruin 

Our faxiiine-stricken land. 



OUR MOURNING MOTHERLAND. 123 

Hope for a glorious dawning 

Beyond this niglit of gloom, 
For Justice dwells in heaven, 

And yet to earth shall come ; 
Soon Freedom's voice shall silence 

Our mourning Nation's wail — 
Though Might awhile be master. 

Right shall at last prevail. 

When strong right hands of freemen 

In characters sublime 
Shall write the doom of tyrants 

Upon the wall of time, 
*T were needless, haughty Britain, 

Thy crafty seers to call ; 
The words of light thus written 

Shall then be read by all. 

Base Babylon of nations. 

How great thy fall shall be ; 
Intolerant in power, 

How few shall mourn for thee ; 
While o'er thy crumbling ruins 

The raven flaps its wing, 
A paean rescued Erin 

Above thy grave shall sing. 

1862. 



124 TWILIGHT. 



TWILIGHT. 

Upon his crimson-curtained couch, 

Far in the glowing west, 
His long and weary journey o'er, 

The day-king sank to rest. 
While Nature, careful mother, home 
Bade all her weary children come, 

To slumber on her breast. 

The clouds that to the sunset dyes 

Their fleecy folds unrolled. 
Lay piled across the western skies 

Like snow-drifts tinged with gold. 
While heaven's broad fields of hazy blue 
Displayed a blush of amber hue 

In every azure fold. 

Sweet as a dream of childhood days 
The twilight hours glide by. 

Till night has trimmed her silver lamps 
And hung them in the sky. 

And Luna, on her throne afar. 

With many a bright attendant star, 
Smiles calmly from on high. 



TWILIGHT. 125 

twilight hours, fading days ! 

Upon your viewless wings 
What fancies float, like zephyrs, by ; 

What memories do ye bring 
Up from the dim aisles of the past, 
Like ocean shells that, landward cast, 

Still of their caverns sing. 

Loved voices silent long ago 

Float on the breathing air ; 
Long-buried faces smile again 

In living beauty fair ; 
Old songs of home, old friends that smile, 
Shut out the present for a while. 

And banish grief and care. 

Still to the heart must twilight be 

The dearest hour of all ; 
Soft as the sweep of angel wings 

Its shades around us fall ; 
It lulls the soul, when tempest-tossed, 
With memories of the loved and lost, 

And breathes of rest to all. 

As calmly o'er life's twilight hour 
May death's dark shadow come ; 

May many a radiant star of hope 
Shine through the gathering gloom, 

Like lamps by angel-hands at even 



126 SUMMER SHOWERS. 

Held o'er the battlements of heaven 
To light lost wanderers home. 

Oh, Father, may the clouds of sin 
That dim our heavenward way 

In penitential tears dissolve ; 
May life's last sunset ray 

Reveal beyond the shores of time 

The glories of a changeless clime 
Of never-ending day. 



SUMMER SHOWERS. 

The sun- scorched earth seems shrinking 

From the dense, heated air ; 
The trees are lifting upward 

Their arais as if in prayer ; 
In sickly languor drooping 

Are all the beauteous flowers, 
In silent supplication 

For sweet, refreshing showers. 

The rustlings of the corn-leaves 

In silvery whispers pass ; 
In quiet waves of verdure 

Lies the soft meadow grass ; 



SUMMER SHOWERS. 127 

All nature seems to slumber 

In weariness and pain, 
Waiting to be awakened 

By the soft summer rain. 

God bears tbis mute appealing, 

And, in His boundless love, 
He turns tbe crystal cbannels 

Of tbe brigbt streams above, 
And over field and forest 

Tbe gleaming raindrops glance, 
Wbile to tbe wind's low music 

Tbeir twinkling footsteps dance. 

And as in pearly clusters 

Descend tbe falling sbowers, 
Like tears of pitying angels, 
• Upon tbe tbirsty flowers, 
So does God's tender mercy 

Fall like refresbing rain. 
To bid tbe fainting spirit 

Eise, live and bope again. 

Ob, universal Fatber, 

Beneatb wbose bounteous band 
Eartb spreads ber robe of beauty. 

And buds and flowers expand, 
Wbo arcbes eartb and ocean 

Witb tbe clear beaven o'er, 



128 THE patriot's vow. 

And strews the stars like diamonds 
Upon its azure floor,— 

If in Thy love Thou sendest 

The gentle rain, to fall 
On leaf and bud and blossom, 

Whose mute lips to Thee call, 
How much more wilt Thou succor 

Thy human flowers, placed here 
To gather strength and beauty 

For a sublimer sphere. 



THE PATRIOT'S VOW. 

O'er mountains blue, and green-robed hills, 

Belted by countless silver rills. 

Whose low-voiced, murmuring music fills 

The pure, health-breathing air, 
Where, fringed with groves, green valleys lie, 
Arched by an ever- changing sky. 
The patriot looks with reverent eye 

On land so sad and fair. 

Her towers and halls to ruin gone — 
Proud relics of the ages flown — 



THE patriot's VOW. 129 

The ivy drapes each molclering stone, 

To shroud its sad decay ; 
Her mighty chieftains, brave and bold. 
Who mildly ruled in days of old, 
Have slumbered long beneath the mold, 

And tyrants now hold sway. 

*'Alas, my land!" the patriot cries, 
*' When wilt thou from the dust arise ? 
Thy sad complaints may rend the skies, 

But ne'er thy fetters break ; 
Thy hope must be in deeds — not words; 
The keenest logic lies in swords ; 
Thou canst not loose, then cut the cords 
That bind thee to the stake. 

'^A stern voice rings from rocks and waves, 
Prom ruined homes and heroes' graves : 

* God never made our land for slaves 

Her children's limbs for chains ! ' 
Brave hearts, strong arms are thine, green land ; 
And vowed to right thy wrongs we stand — 
To never rest while despot's hand 
Defiles thy hallowed plains. 

*' Here, kneeling on this sacred sod, 
By feet of patriot-martyrs trod. 
Our trust in right and Freedom's God, 
We swear we shall be free ! 

7 



i 30 WATER-LILIES. 

As freemen on our native plains 
We'll firmly stand while life remains, 
Nor wear a foreign tyrant's chains. 
Nor bend a conquered knee ! " 



WATER-LILIES. 

]?ALE babes of the billow, your pure faces raising 

Up from the dark wave to the sunlight above, 
jjike glorified souls from their earth-prisons spring- 
ing, 
To bathe their freed wings in the light of God's 
love, — 

Hocked on the smooth stream like a babe in its 
cradle, 

It seems, while upon its calm bosom ye rest. 
As if a broad flake from the blue sky of midnight 

Had fallen to earth with the stars on its breast. 

As pure may our souls float o'er life's troubled 
waters, 
As stainless arise from the dust of the grave. 
To bathe in the crystalline river eternal 

That from God's great love draws its life-giving 
wave. 



HEROISM. 131 



HEKOISM. 

The age of heroes is not dead, 

Nor numbered with the past ; 
Each day calls forth some daring deed 

More brilliant than the last ; 
Each day some noble sacrifice 

Made in a glorious cause 
Bids earth to her foundations shake 

With thunders of applause. 

The hero stands, a demi-god, 

'Mid the admiring crowd 
That sounds the trumpet of his fame 

In plaudits long and loud ; 
Their praise is music to his ears — 

Yet had he toiled the same, 
And failure, not success, been his, 

How would he bear their blame ? 

And though unmoved where passion rolls 

A fiercely flaming flood 
Of strife across a nation's breast 

That must be quenched in blood, 



132 HEROISM. 

Though fearless 'mid the tempest's rag^ 
And foremost in the strife, 

The hero of an hour may be 
The coward of a life. 



But more heroic is the soul 

That acts its humble part, 
And makes its quiet dwelling-place 

In woman's faithful heart ; 
That praise or blame, or coward fear 

Of what the world will say. 
Can never for a moment lure 

From its appointed way. 

For whether by the household hearth 

Or in the convent cell, 
Or 'mid the haunts where pale disease 

And sad-browed sorrow dwell, 
Her trials, struggles, cares and woes 

She bravely bears alone ; 
Her life is full of hero-deeds 

To the great world unknown. 

Though many a dreary path she strews 
With flowers of mercy sweet. 

Oft in her own sharp thorns are thrown 
That pierce her weary feet ; 

Yet patient, uncomplaining still, 
She toils as seasons roll, 



HEROISM. 133 

Wearing perhaps a careless smile 
To liide a martyr- soul. 

As sweetly in some quiet dell 

Tlie violet, newly blown, 
Breathes fragrance on tlie passer-by, 

Itself unseen, unknown, 
Distilling balm for otters' woes, 

She spends her quiet days. 
Content to see her noblest works 

Win blame instead of praise. 

The world may have no meed of praise, 

No laurel-wreath to give 
To those who daily walk with death 

That others yet may live, 
Who stanch the blood that laureled brows 

Have caused in streams to flow, 
But angels twine unfading crowns 

For those uncrowned below. 

The hero true, forgetting self. 

Will ready ever stand 
To live, to suffer, or to die 

For God or native land ; 
But while you give him honor due, 

Pass not unheeding by 
Her whose brave soul endures and lives 

Where he could only die. 



134 LAMENT OF THE MOORISH MAIDEN. 



LAMENT OF THE MOORISH MAIDEN. 

Oh, beauteous Granada, how fallen art thou! 
The Crescent's light shineth no more on thy brow ; 
Thy palaces echo the tread of the foe ; 
Granada, Granada, thy glory lies low ! 

Oh, where are thy warriors, the true and the tried, 
Who passed from thy portals in chivalrous pride ? 
Their lances are broken, they sleep in their gore, 
Their trumpets shall ring through Granada no more. 

Oh, fairest of cities, thou queen of our pride. 
Weep, weep for the heroes who for thee have died ; 
Down through the green vega the Xenil runs red, 
And Darro is choked with the heaps of the dead. 

Though softly the breath of the myrtle floats by, 
Its perfume is heavy with many a sigh ; 
The spirit of song has abandoned thy bowers, 
And crimsoned with gore are thy loveliest flowers. 

Though cool, gushing fountains still leap in thy 

halls. 
Their spray like a shower of heavy tears falls, 



THE LITTLE CHAIR. 135 

And if a glad note through thy orange groves rings, 
Alas ! it is only the nightingale sings. 

Oh, home of my kindred, thy power is flown, 
Thy monarch an exile,, and ruined thy throne ; 
Thy strength and thy heauty no longer are ours, 
The Cross glitters high o'er Alhambra's proud 
towers. 

Granada, though fallen, how dear to my heart ; 
In vain from thy bowers I strive to depart ; 
With thee will I linger, and when life is past, 
Eepose with my sires in thy bosom at last. 



THE LITTLE CHAIR. 

The house seems bright and cheerful 

As any home can be ; 
I hear clear, ringing laughter. 

Glad bursts of childish glee ; 
Why does the silent mother 

A look of sadness wear ? 
Ah, in a shaded corner 

She sees a little chair. 



136 THE LITTLE CHAIR. 

There sat her blue-eyed Willie, 

One year ago to day — 
Oh, with what earnest pleading 

She prayed that he might stay ; 
For, though she knew God called him, 

She wished not yet to spare 
Her youngest, brightest darling 

To fill an angel's chair. 

His sweet young voice is silent. 

She sees his smile no more, 
Nor hears his tiny footsteps' 

Light patter on the floor, 
The dimpled hands no longer 

Are lifted up in prayer. 
Lisped in sweet, childish accents, 

Beside his little chair. 



Though other children gambol 

All joyous at her side, 
Her sad eye vainly seeketh 

The little one that died ; 
Oh, bitterly she mourns him, 

And oft, when none are there, 
Her hot tears fall in silence 

Upon his little chair. 

Oh, there is many a household 
Where joy and sorrow meet — 



MAY. 137 

Homes where one link is wanting 

Tlie circle to complete, 
And slionld you ask what shadow 

Of sorrow resteth there, 
Some loving hand will sadly 

Point to an empty chair. 

What heart is there that mourns not 

Some loved one gone hefore. 
To meet the waiting angels 

Upon the spirit shore ? 
Since here there must be partings. 

Oh, let it be our prayer 
That in our home eternal 

We'll mourn no empty chair. 



MAY 



Again with joy we greet thee, flow^er-crowned, 

sunny May ; 
We've listened for thy footsteps through many a 

dreary day ; 
Now wrapped in robes of beauty thou 'st burst 

upon our view. 
Thy emerald sandals spangled with pearls of purest 

dew. 



138 MAY. 

From out tlie future's bosom thou 'st sprung on 
radiant wings ; 

The varied voice of Nature to tliee an anthem sings ; 

The green aisles of the forest peal forth the glad- 
some strain, 

And rivers bear it onward rejoicing to the main. 



Thy lap is filled with blossoms — the brightest buds 

that blow ; 
Sweet smiles and fond caresses on them thou dost 

bestow, 
Awaking them with sunbeams, and nursing them 

with showers, 
For ''Israel's spotless Lily," the glorious queen of 

flowers. 



Thou art the month of Mary, O mild and genial 

May ; 
The blossoms thou dost scatter along thy sunny 

way 
Breathe out in dewy garlands, that loving hands 

entwine, 
Their short, sweet lives of beauty before our 

Mother's shrine. 



gentle Queen of Heaven, from thy bright throne 

above 
Forever wafting downward sweet messages of love 



THE DEPARTED. 189 

To thy poor, wandering children, look kindly, we 

entreat, 
Upon the simple offerings we lay before thy feet. 

And as their incense rises around thy starry throne, 
Thy voice in prayer lift upward for ns unto thy 

Son, 
That in our hearts fair flowers of grace may bloom 

each day, 
More bright than buds that blossom upon the brow 

of May. 



THE DEPARTED. 

How fondly does the heart recall 
The friends of vanished years. 

The peaceful dead, who calmly rest. 
Unmoved by hopes or fears ; 

Visions of light and love, they come 

Into the heart, like dreams of home, 
And melt the soul to tears. 

Their voices often on our ears 
In silvery cadence fall, 



140 THE DEPARTED. 

Like some sweet song, almost forgot,. 

That we would fain recall ; 
When Memory sweeps the heart-harp's chords, 
Echoes of long forgotten words 

Breathe round us at her call. 



Like whispers of a summer breeze 

That on its airy wings 
From hill and lea, from grove and vale, 

The balm of blossoms brings, 
They come to us in silent hours. 
Like strains that in celestial bowers 

Some wandering seraph sings. 

The faces of our loved and dead 

Arise before our gaze ; 
The smiles that tinged with light the clouds 

Of long departed days, 
Oft in our loneliness come back, 
To light us o'er life's darkened track 

With hope's celestial rays. 

Oh, faces shrouded from our view, 

Oh, voices silent long. 
We would not call you back to earth 

For sweetest smile or song — 
Here time or doubt may friends estrange, 
In heaven the heart can never change 

Or chill at fancied wrong. 



LOUGH NEAGH. 141 

To US ye are as beacon lights 

Upon the heavenly shore ; 
While o'er life's changing sea we drift, 

And hear its breakers roar, 
With outstretched aims ye bid us come, 
And smile a joyous welcome home 

Where parting is no more. 



LOUGH NEAGH. 

Pair lake, I've stood upon thy shore 

In Erin's glorious spring. 
When o'er thy azure bosom swept 

The sea-gull's snowy wing. 
When, folded over earth's broad breast. 

From the bright wave below 
An emerald mantle stretched, with fringe 

Of hawthorns' fragrant snow. 

Thy placid bosom shows no sign 

Of ages long gone by — 
It but reflects the varied hues 

Of Erin's changeful sky ; 



142 LOUGH NEAGH. 

No footprints of the buried race 

In tlie green vale below, 
Who lived, loved, died, and left no trace. 

Thy tranquil waters show. 

No sunken towers to greet my sight 

Thy glassy mirror gave. 
Save where Shane's Castle stood alone 

Reflected in the wave. 
Its towers, like hoary sages, raise 

Their heads, with ruin gray. 
To tell us of a grand old race 

Forever passed away. 

That brave old valiant race who long 

The Saxon power withstood — 
To keep proud Freedom's ark afloat 

They freely shed their blood ; 
Now o'er their hallowed dust is heard 

The despot's clanking chain — 
Their moss-grown tombs, their ruined halls. 

Are all that now remain. 



Not all ! In Erin's heart of hearts 
Their memory still will live, 

Kept fragrant by the purest tears 
A mother's love can give ; 

And on her history's brightest page 
Their deeds, their high renown, 



LOUGH NEAGH. 143 

Shall shine — our country's northern lights, 
When tower and hall go down. 

The waters break in heavy sobs 

Against the castle's wall, 
Like spirits of the olden time 

Come back to weep its fall ; 
But sobs are Erin's household words — 

Since tyrants trod her strand 
She 's shed a flood of tears and blood 

Might deluge all the land. 

Fair lake, while gazing on thy breast 

And on my country's woe, 
I've ^almost wished that far above 

Her mountains thou wouldst flow ; 
Better that Lethe's wave o'er her 

And all her woes should roll, 
Did not the heavenly light of hope 

Shine on her tortured soul. 

The iron hand that long has held 

Our nation in the dust, 
So often wet with martyrs' blood, 

At last must turn to rust ; 
One vigorous blow its strength must crush, — 

Once crushed, 't will rise no more 
To blight the bloom on Erin's cheek, 

Or curse Lough Neagh's green shore. 



144 GETHSEMANE, 



GETHSEMANE. 



Night above Judea's mountains folds her mantle 
like a pall ; 

Soft the shadows of her pinions over hill and val- 
ley fall ; 

Sad Gethsemane, above thee seems a darker shad- 
ow thrown, 

Where the Saviour kneeleth lowly in His agony 
alone. 

Blessed Lord, what bitter anguish in that dread- 
ful hour was Thine, 

When the powers of earth and heaven seemed 
against Thee to combine. 

When the angel, bending o'er Thee, held the flam- 
ing chalice down. 

And revealed the fearful torture of the Cross and 
thorny crown. 

By Thy chosen ones forsaken in that dark and 

bitter hour. 
When a surging sea of sorrow swept Thy soul 

with fearful power — 



OETHSEMANE. 145 

They, unmindful of Tliy angnisli, slept while foes 

came rushing on, 
Leaving Thee to brave the fury of Thy enemies 

alone. 

Oh, Gethsemane, mute witness of the agony of God, 
Consecrated by His sorrow, ever holy be thy sod; 
Mercy in His heart with Justice striving, there the 

victory won. 
As He cried, *' Oh, Heavenly Father, not my will, 

but Thine, be done." 

While on earth we 're doomed to wander, every 

human soul must know 
Some dark hour of desolation, some Gethsemane of 

woe, — 
Moments when the fainting spirit in its weariness 

will groan. 
Weakly shrinking from the trials that it fears to 

meet alone. 

But when waves of sorrow o'er us like the ocean 

billows roll. 
Bitter tears will wash the earth-stains from the 

white wings of the soul ; 
Lord, though weak and weary-hearted, from our 

woes we try to flee. 
Let us drink Thy bitter chalice, if it make us more 

like Thee. 
7* 



146 TO A SISTER OF MERCY. 

Often from Thy patli we wander, agonizing Son of 

God; 
We would walk to heaven on roses, while on thorns 

Thy feet have trod, — 
Teach our hearts that it is only by the Cross the 

Crown is won ; 
In our darkest hours of sorrow let us say, '* Thy 

will be done !" 



TO A SISTER OF MERCY. 

Dear friend, my thoughts oft wander, 

My heart oft turns to thee ; 
I hear thy words of kindness, 

Thy friendly face I see. 
The shining links are brittle 

That worldly ties entwine ; 
How much more true and lasting 

Is friendship such as thine. 

Oft in the gloomy prison 

Where sin and sorrow dwell 

Thy name is breathed with blessings 
In many a dreary cell ; 

Oft o'er the lowly threshold 
Where wretchedness abides. 



TO A SISTER OF MERCY. 147 

Bearer of timely succor. 

Thy noiseless footstep glides. 

May blessings gild thy pathway 
While walking, day by day, 
With strong, unwearying patience, 
Where Mercy leads the way, 
* Performing deeds of kindness, 
And speaking words of cheer, 
a^To soothe the stricken-hearted, 
And dry the mourner's tear. 

Oh, noble is thy mission — 

Then be thy labor blessed ; 
Long be it thine to succor 

The needy and distressed — 
To guide the weak and erring, 

Watch by the sufferer's bed. 
To soothe and bless the dying. 

And pray beside the dead. 

May angel-fingers gather 

Thy deeds of mercy done, 
And twine them into garlands 

To lay before the Throne ; 
And, when life's toils are over, 

Mayst thou its cares lay down 
To wear in endless glory 

A never-fading crown. 



148 SAINT martin's. 



SAINT MARTIN'S. 

[The Ursiiline Academy, Brown County, Ohio.] 

Sweet, liappy spot, where holy peace forever 

Like a pure spirit sits with folded wings, 
Where Virtue's radiant, ever-blooming flowers 

Are watered by Religion's crystal springs, 
Thou seemest in thy calm and quiet beauty 

From earth's wild strifes and sins and sorrows 
free ; 
Thou sittest throned amid thy broad green wood- 
lands — 

A sunny island in an emerald sea. 

Apart from all the gay world's gilded pleasures. 

Brave, patient spirits in thy walls abide. 
Walking in toil and prayer and self-denial 

The lowly pathway of the Crucified ; 
And many a young heart, nurtured by their kind- 
ness, 

Will think of them and thee when distant far, 
And look back to thy altar-lamp's pale shining. 

As once the shepherds looked to Bethlehem's star. 



SAINT martin's. 149 

Some of my brightest, happiest days have glided 

In thy still shades, like streams of sunshine, by ; 
And to my heart thou wilt be linked forever 

By memories that can not fade or die ; 
The great and true and noble hearts thou boldest, 

The precious lessons and the words of cheer, 
Of gentleness and hope and patient kindness, 

Heard in thy walls, will make thee ever dear. 



In the dim years that yet, perchance, await me, 

When mingling with the great world's toil and 
strife, 
I '11 look back to the time when first I saw thee, 

As to the dawning of a better life. 
God's blessing rest on thine and thee forever, 

Fair dwelling-place of purity and truth ; 
And mayst thou be, as now, in after ages. 

The home of virtue and the guide of youth. 



150 FALLING LEAVES. 



FALLING LEAVES. 

They 're slowly drifting downward, 

Witli low and whispering sound, 
In hues of fleeting beauty 

Painting the russet ground. 
What sombre shadows Fancy 

Into our life-web weaves, 
As autumn winds are w^ailing 

Among the falling leaves. 

Out in the sighing forest 

They rustle 'neath our tread. 
Like the half- smothered echoes 

Of voices from the dead; 
Or like some wandering spirit 

That, sad and restless, grieves 
O'er all its bright days wasted, 

Moan the sad autumn leaves. 

Like them our lives are changing. 
Like them we too must fade. 

When pass our few brief seasons 
Of sunshine and of shade ; 



ANGELS. 151 

And thougli perhaps our passing 

Some Kome or heart bereaves, 
We 're soon no more remembered 

Than withered autumn leaves. 



Oh, moaning leaves of autumn, 

As sad were earthly life, 
Was there no glorious future, 

Undimmed by grief and strife, 
Where heart-strings are unbroken. 

And no sad spirit grieves, — 
Where are no faded flowers 

Or withered autumn leaves. 



ANGELS. 

They hover around us on pinions of light. 
Dispersing the shadows of sorrow's dark night ; 
They watch o'er our welfare from cradle to grave* 
And calm the wild tempests of life's troubled wave. 

Some, radiant in beauty, descend from the skies, 
Whose glory would dazzle our earth-clouded eyes ; 
Some, robed in coarse raiment, and prisoned in clay. 
Are journeying with us on life's rugged way. 



152 SAINT Patrick's day. 

They bear to the sufferer the balm of relief; 
They weep o'er our sins, and console us in grief ; 
From clay-cumbered dwellings those pure spirits 

shine, 
As diamonds flash out through the gloom of the 

mine. 

Our earth-angels kneel in the chamber of death, 
And mingle their prayers with the faint, parting 

breath, 
While heavenly spirits receive the last groan. 
And bear the freed soul to the foot of the throne. 

While humbly adoring our Father above^ 
Who sends us those guardians of mercy and love, 
To watch o'er us ever, though shrouded from view, 
We thank Him for sending us earth-angels too. 



SAINT PATRICK'S DAY. 

Away to the mist-shrouded tombs of the ages 
Have centuries rolled on the billows of Time, 

Since Patrick first shed o'er our beautiful island 
The light of Religion, serene and sublime ; 



SAINT Patrick's day. 153 

And since, though the whirlwinds of fierce per- 
secution 
-In fury around her unceasingly war, 
That pure light has been to our land through the 
temjDest 
As is to the tossed bark a clear guiding-star. 



Oh, proudly, indeed, may the children of Erin, 

Though scattered far from her on many a shore. 
All honor this day of the glorious apostle 

Who taught them the Father of all to adore ; 
No martyr's blood crimsoned the sod in his path- 
way — 

He planted the Gross, and that emblem divine 
Has ever been honored by chieftain and peasant. 

And round it the shamrock forever shall twine. 



And proudly and joyously Erin looks over 

The blue waves that carried her loved ones away ; 
She sees, though far distant, they still fondly love 
her, 
And hopefully looks for a happier day — 
A day when her children shall shake off the vipers 
That soil the bright folds of her mantle of green, 
And laurels entwine with the dew-spangled sham- 
rocks 
That wreathe the fair brow of our loved Ocean 
Queen. 
8 



154 THE TWILIGHT OF THE YEAR. 

Oh, welcome, thrice welcome the morning whose 
dawning 
The exile's heart bears to his loved native land. 
That joins the brave hands and true hearts of our 
people — 
A noble, imited and patriot band ; 
Though darkly the storm-clouds may lower around 
her, 
The hopes of our Nation will never decay 
While her children, though scattered o'er ocean and 
mountain. 
Assemble to honor Saint Patrick's day. 



THE TWILIGHT OF THE YEAR. 

The twilight of the year has come, 

And Autumn's ruddy cheek 
Is raised to meet the icy kiss 

Of Winter, stern and bleak ; 
The flowers that, bright as angel smiles, 

Beamed round us, disappear. 
And coldly, sadly closes in 

The twilight of the year. 

Out in the solemn, shaded aisles 
Of forests dark and dim, 



THE TWILIGHT OF THE YEAR. 155 

In moiirnfiil cadence Nature chants 

The year's sad vesper-hymn ; 
Her organ is the moaning wind, — 

Its notes so wild and drear, 
Sighed through the falling leaves, proclaim 
The twilight of the year. 

In strains of grand, wild harmony 

Her pealing anthem rolls ; 
Like voices from the silent dead 

It thrills our listening souls ; 
It whispers of departed ones 

That memory still holds dear, 
Who in thy shadows fell asleep, 

Sad twilight of the year. 

Oh, moaning wind of Autumn, now 

Thy voice with mournful wail 
Sweeps many a dreary hill and plain 

Where camp-fires glimmer pale, 
Like waning stars seen through the gloom — 

Where those our hearts hold dear 
Are thinking of us as they watch 

This twilight of the year. 

Ahove the gory fields of strife 
Where fell the true and brave, 

Thy sad voice chants a requiem 
O'er many a hero's grave ; 



156 TO MRS. SADLIER. 

But not yet o'er a Nation's tomb, 

Nor Freedom's gory bier, 
Is wrapped tby shroud of withered leaves, 

Pale twilight of the year. 

May He who paints the Autumn leaves, 

And bids them fade and fall, 
Whose bounteous hand is ever held 

In mercy over all, 
Send heaven-born peace, on angel wings. 

Our hearts and homes to cheer. 
And smile away the strife that clouds 

This twilight of the year. 

1862. 



TO MKS. SADLIER, 

[On reading her splendid historical tale, " The Confederate Chieftains."] 

Oh, thou whose genius-gifted pen 

Is as a potent, magic wand 
Whose touch awakes to life and power 

The buried heroes of our land. 
My heart goes out in love to thee. 

While poring o'er the breathing page 
Where grandly live and sternly strive 

The chieftains of a vanished age. 



TO MRS. SADLIER. 157 

Our great and glorious dead, who sleep 

In heroes' or in martyrs' graves, 
Thou bringest back to tell their sons 

How much they loathed the name of slaves, 
How their proud eagle-spirits scorned 

To stoop from Freedom's lofty height. 
And reared a wall of dauntless hearts 

Against Oppression's banded might. 

Their grandly mournful story thrills 

Our hearts with mingled grief and pride. 
And who shall dare, because they failed, 

To say in vain they strove and died ? 
None, — for the land that gave them birth, 

That holds their ashes on her breast, 
Eemembering their noble deeds. 

In chains can never, never rest. 

'Tis given to thy hand to ope 

The secret chambers of the heart. 
To bid it bound with joy or mirth, 

Or cause grief's hidden founts to start ; 
Oh, cold must be the breast in which 

Thy words awake no genial glow, 
And hard the eye that does not weep 

The Nation's idol — Owen Eoe. 

From the bright radiance thou hast flung 
Around the struggles of the Past, 



158 ON THE SHORE. 

The Present grasps a ray of hope 
Upon the Future's path to east ; 

Oh, may Grod ever shield and bless 
The great, true heart and gifted hand 

That twine such deathless wreaths to lay 
Upon the shrine of Fatherland ! 



ON THE SHORE. 

Oh, ocean, old ocean, majestic and grand, 

Thy hoary beard sweeps the brown feet of the land, 

And stern is thy voice in its roar; 
Thy waves in their fury leap madly on high. 
To war with the tempest that frowns in the sky, 

Then sink with a wail on the shore. 



We watch the proud ship as across thy broad breast 
It beareth far from us the friends we love best, 

Perhaps to behold them no more ; 
The deep, sullen voice of thy waves, as they roll, 
Sweeps like a wild wail of despair o'er the soul 

As lonely we stand on the shore. 



ON THE SHORE. 159 

Oh, sadly we think on the cold ocean graves 
Of those who have left us to cross the wild waves, 

And sank 'mid the fierce tempest's roar, 
But sadder it is to see loved ones from sight 
Fade slowly and sadly away in the night 

Of death, while we weep on the shore. 

Oh, dreary is life when all trustingly we 

Send high hopes adrift over life's changeful sea, 

That shoreward return nevermore ; 
And sadly we read in the world's chilling frown 
That out in the tempest our hopes have gone down, 

While we have kept watch on the shore. 

Our choicest heart-treasures are, day after day. 
On Time's restless ocean all floating away. 

The waves of oblivion sweep o'er ; 
And so too must we, when our life-work is done, 
Go down, while the waters roll peacefully on. 

Forgotten by those on the shore. 

Oh, when the brief day of our earth-life is past, 
And time, like a shadow, slips from us at last. 

From earth may our freed spirits soar, 
With white wings unstained by their fetters of clay. 
And, borne on Eternity's billows away. 

Find rest on a happier shore. 



160 CHILDHOOD FRIENDS. 



CHILDHOOD FRIENDS. 

Brightly the pure, guileless friendsliips of ctild- 
hoocl 

Gleam out like gems on tlie brow of the Past ; 
To us the dear haunts in valley and wildwood 

Seem fairy isles on life's broad ocean cast. 



There in life's morning we wandered together, 
Up with the lark, in the young, rosy hours, 

Brushing with light feet the dew from the heather, 
Chasing the buttertlies over the flowers. 

Now, like the leaves that the autumn winds scatter 
Over the brown earth, we 're drifting apart, 

Dreading the voices that slander or flatter — 
Doubt chases childhood's sweet trust from the 
heart. 

Some at the death-angel's call have departed 
O'er the dark wave to the beautiful shore ; 

Some, with their life-load of cares weary-hearted, 
Wait the pale boatman to ferry them o'er. 



CHILDHOOD FRIENDS. 161 

One, young and brave, in tlie wild Western ocean 
Sleeps his last sleep 'neath tlie blue, heaving 
waves ; 

Cradled to rest by the billows' soft motion, — 
Sweet be his dreams in the pearl -spangled caves. 

Where o'er low grave-stones the ivy is creeping, 
Where, dark-robed mourners, the yew branches 
wave. 
One 'neath the turf of the valley lies sleeping, — 
Last spring's svv'eet snowdrops bloomed over her 
grave. 

Some are to-day in the red field of danger, 
Some in the old homes on valley or hill ; 

One, though alone in the land of the stranger. 
Thinks of child -friendships, and treasures them 
still. 

On the fair shore of the kingdom eternal 
Like little children all dwellers shall be ; 

Earth-withered hearts in its groves shall grow 
vernal. 
Doubt and distrust like the tempest shall flee. 



162 THE SILENT RIVER. 



THE SILENT RIVER. 

Oh, dark and sullen wave of Time, 

Forever onward flowing, 
Like seaweed on thy breast we drift, 

Nor lieed where thou art going ; 
Like bubbles on a summer stream 

Our lives glide onward ever. 
And float at last down to the past 

Upon the silent river. 

Though dark clouds gather round our way, 

We must not stop to sorrow ; 
The sun that hides his face to-day 

May brightly shine to-morrow ; 
And should he not, life's storm and cloud 

Will vanish soon forever. 
And peace and rest be found at last 

Beyond Time's rapid river. 

The gilded toys that now we prize, 
Like Autumn leaves will scatter. 

And from our sight will fade at last 
Like sunshine from the water : 



THE OLD YEAR. 163 

But steadfast faith and noble deeds 

Will sliine around us ever, 
Like guiding- stars, to lead us home 

Across the silent river. 



No gilded bubbles must we chase. 

No dreams of fleeting pleasure, 
But steadily bear down life's stream 

A freight of fadeless treasure ; 
And when upon its twilight waves 

Life's last faint sunbeams quiver, 
Launched on Eternity's broad sea, 

We'll leave that silent river. 



THE OLD YEAK. 

With noiseless step he is gliding down 

To the vaults of the silent past, 
'Mid the dust and mildew that Time has strewn 

O'er his kindred, to sleep at last. 

Though his eye is bright, and few silvery hairs 

Yet gleam on his drooping head. 
If we have not wasted his priceless gifts, 

Need we weep o'er his dying bed ? 



164 THE OLD YEAR. 

Shall we weakly mourn over vanished days, 
Like a child o'er a broken toy, 

And with folded hands let the Present pass 
On its pinions of lightning by ? 

'Mid winter's snows we may search in vain 
For the summer's sun-kissed flowers ; 

The Past and Future but phantoms are, 
The Present alone is ours. 

Though in life's battle to-day we stand 
With strong hearts, firm and brave. 

The blue-eyed violets may next year shed 
Their dew-tears o'er our graves. 

Then let us toil while day's white robe 

Is tinged by a glowing sun, 
That, when life's evening shadows fall, 

We can say our work is done ; — 

That shadowy spectres of wasted years 

In memory ne'er may rise 
To clog the soul's earth-weary wings. 

As it struggling homeward flies. 

While the old year closes his weary eye, 
And sinks on his cloud -draped bier. 

As we hear his knell on the midnight bell. 
We'll welcome the bright new year. 



ACROSS THE SEA. 165 



ACEOSS THE SEA. 

Across tlie sea is a fair green isle, 
Where Nature weareth. lier sweetest smile, 
Where giant mountains raise proudly higli 
Their hoary heads to the clouded sky. 
Where fairy islets like emeralds sleep 
In lakes of crystal, pure, calm and deep ; 
The dearest spot upon earth to me 
Is that green island across the sea. 

There grand old ruins rise sadly lone, 

Footprints of ages of glory gone. 

Ere foreign tyrants defiled the sod 

Where countless altars were raised to God ; 

Ere discord severed the golden band 

That wisdom twined round our happy land,- 

Oh, to have seen thee when blest and free. 

My own green island across the sea ! 

Oh, to have lived in those ages past 
That yet a glory around thee cast. 
When king and peasant knelt at one shrine. 
And golden plenty and power were thine ; 



166 ACROSS THE SEA. 

Ere war and famine, of foreign birth, 
With martyrs' graves filled thy holy earth. 
And forced thy children to fly from thee, 
My own green island across the sea. 

Though blood-stained ages of grief and gloom 
Have strove to build thee a living tomb, 
Still Freedom shouts from thy heroes* graves : 

** Better die freemen than live as slaves ! " 
And brave hearts bound as they hear the words 
That must be echoed with clash of swords, 
And exiles sigh as they think of thee : 

** God bless the green isle across the sea ! " 

Upon thy shore and in foreign lands 
Brave hero-hearts, and strong, willing hands, 
Wait but the moment to rise in might 
For thee and Liberty, God and Right. 
Thy night of sorrow is nearly past. 
And Freedom's sun from the clouds at last 
In dazzling splendor shall burst on thee. 
My own green island across the sea. 



THE CHEROKEE. 167 



THE CHEROKEE. 

He stood on a cliff that overlooked the green valley 
Where lately the homes of his kindred were seen, 

And mournfully gazed on the smoke-hlackened ruins 
That told where the Cherokee lodges had been. 

The blue-mantled hills raised their foreheads to 
welcome 
The morn, as she crowned them with circlets of 
gold. 
And 'mid the thick groves of the blooming mag- 
nolias 
Their beautiful rivers still oceanward rolled. 

The fleet-footed deer through the free forest bounded. 
The thickets still echoed the mocking-bird's 
strain, 
Pure cascades of crystal leaped down from the 
mountains. 
And garlands of flowers still wreathed the green 
plain. 

But upward no more curled the smoke from the 
wigwams ; 
All still as the grave lay the valley below ; 



168 THE CHEROKEE. 

The voices of warrior, of matron and maiden, 
Were quenched in their life-blood, or silenced 
in woe. 

Fierce glowed the brown cheek of the dusky- skinned 
warrior, 
And anguish looked out from his dark, mourn- 
ful eye, 
As sadly he murmured, *' Oh, graves of our kin- 
dred, 
Oh, home of our Nation, from thee must we fly ? 

** The beautiful country the Manitou gave us, 
With vine-mantled hill-sides, and forests of 
flowers. 
Our land of green plains and of clear, gushing 
rivers — 
Alas ! that it can not forever be ours. 

*' In flying canoes o'er the great ocean water 

The pale-faces came from the far sunrise lands. 
With words like the song of the wren in the spring- 
time. 
With smiles on their false lips and death in their 
hands. 

*' Though fair were their faces, black hearts lay 
beneath them ; 
Their greedy eyes longed for our hunting-grounds 
wide, 



THE CHEROKEE. 169 

And vainly they strove witli false words to be- 
guile lis 
Away from the spot where our forefathers died. 

** Close, close clung the hearts of thy children 
around thee, 
Our rock-girdled Eden, our beautiful land ; 
It seemed the great Manitou sat on thy mountains, 
And poured down his blessings with bountiful 
hand. 

*'The graves of our kindred, the homes of our 
children, 
The dear haunts of youth, were bright links in 
the chain 
That bound us to thee, and our loved and departed 
With mute lips seemed striving to bid us 
remain. 

** Then calmly our warriors told the pale strangers 
They wished by the graves of their fathers to 
stay. 
That there they might sleep, and their children 
beside them. 
When called to the far land of spirits away. 

'' Wild shrieked our gray cliffs as they heard the 
loud thunder 
The pale-faces hurled 'midst our warriors brave. 
8* 



170 THE NATIVITY. 

And now in tlie wreck of our once liappy home- 
steads 
Braves, maidens and children lie heaped in one 
grave. 

*' Too weak to avenge thee, I leave thee in sorrow, 
Dear spot, ere the plough of the stranger I see 

Uprooting the graves of thy people, and crushing 
The bones of the heroes who perished for thee. 

*' Farewell, oh, farewell, beloved land of our people, 
Our arrows are broken, our warriors slain ; 

The sad eyes that gaze on thy beauty and sorrow 
Can never return to behold thee again." 



THE NATIVITY. 

Night walks abroad on Judah's hills, 
And spreads her sable mantle wide. 

While out to deck her dusky brow 
The stars with silvery footsteps glide ; 

It is the time so long foretold 

By Israel's prophet-saints of old. ^ 

The shepherds, watching o'er their flocks 
Upoii the plains of Palestine, 



THE NATIVITY. 171 

Behold with awe a dazzling blaze 

Of heavenly light around them shine, 
And hear with joy the angel's voice 
Bidding a ransomed world rejoice. 

Downward from heaven's pearly gates 
In myriads holy spirits throng ; 
'* Glory to God, and peace to men," 
The burden of their joyous song ; 

While by the star the shepherds led. 
Arrive at Bethlehem's lowly shed. 



And, lo ! the King of Glory there 
In a rude manger shivering lies — 

A little, helpless babe, with tears 
Already in His infant eyes ; 

Oh, earth, could thy bright homes afford 

No fitter shelter for thy Lord? 



There the Messiah, looked for long, 
Disowned, forsaken by His own. 

Begins to feel the world's cold scorn, 
And for its countless crimes atone ; 

His thoughtful eyes already see 

The thorny crown, the crimson tree. 



The youthful mother lowly kneels 
In humble adoration there, 



172 MY mother's song. 

Beside lier Saviour and lier Son, — 

How blest His lowly lot to share, 
On earth His childish, steps to guide, 
And dwell in heaven by His side. 

Sweet mother, be our guiding-star ; 

Lead thou our hearts to Jesus' feet ; 
For us may the angelic choirs 

Their glorious anthem soon repeat ; 
Reecho, earth, their song of peace, 
Let sin and strife and sorrow cease ! 

Oh, holy Babe of Bethlehem, 

Whose sway is owned on every shore, 
Guide in Thy ways our wandering feet. 

Rule Thou our hearts forevermore. 
That, when from their clay fetters free, 
Our ransomed souls may soar to Thee. 



MY MOTHER'S SONG. 

This quiet Autumn evening, out through the gather- 
ing gloom 

My thoughts are fondly turning to thee, my dear 
old home ; 



MY mother's sonci. 173 



And through the misty distance the years seem sad 

and long- 
Since 'neath thy roof in chiklhood I heard my 

mother's song. 

A sweet old simple hallad, whose notes were soft 

and low — 
Still o'er my heart its echoes in soothing numbers 

flow, 
Though in the grave's dark chambers the lips are 

silent long 
That by the hearth at even oft sang my mother's 

song. 

Oh, mother ! though long parted, the memory of 

thy love 
Illumes life's darkest shadows, and points to light 

above ; 
It nerves me in my trials to suffer and be strong, — 
The sunny days of childhood come back with thy 

old song. 

On the sad soul, in hours of weariness and pain. 
Its notes fall, as on flowers falls the soft summer 

rain ; 
And when temptation beckons into the path of 

wrong, 
In tones of gentle warning I hear my mother's 

song. 



1 



1 74 THE PICKET. 

That dear old song must ever find echo in my heart 
Till by Death's icy fingers its chords are snapped 

apart ; 
^ One strain would still be wanting the angel-choirs 

among, 
If there the voice was silent that sang my mother's 

song. 



THE PICKET.* 

The night is dark and cheerless, the wintry blast 

blows chill 
Across the sluggish river, and o'er the dreary hill 
And out from camp the soldier on picket guard 

must go. 
Alone, while others slumber, to stand in cold and 

snow. 

With muffled step, in silence, night's solemn noon 
goes by ; 

Her myriad stars gaze coldly upon him from on 
high, 

And far o'er vale and mountain his thoughts un- 
bidden roam 

To old, familiar faces, and loving hearts at home. 



<* In the winter of 1862 several soldiers on picket guard in the Army 
of the Potomac were found at their posts frozen to death. 



THE PICKET. 175 

He sees his aged mother, her sad face marked witli 
care, 

While lovingly his sisters for him some gift pre- 
pare ; 

He hears them speak of Charlie, and for his safety 
pray. 

And knows their hearts are with him, though he 
is far away. 

But fiercer still around him the tempest's wild wings 

blow, 
The frosty air cuts keener than weapon of the foe ; 
He feels his life-hlood freezing, his heart grow?^ 

cold and still. 
Out in the silent midnight upon the lonely hill. 

At last, when dawns the morning, by the '^ relief 

is found 
Still at his post the soldier, stretched lifeless c 

the ground, 
A smile his pale lips parting — as peaceful seem 

his rest 
As is an infant's slumber upon its mother's breaii 

But where the dark Ohio rolls slowly on its wi^ 
Within a cheerless homestead are heavy hearts t 

day — 
A lonely widowed mother sits bowed in bitter w 
Mourning her boy, her Charlie, who perished in t 

snow. 



176 DISCORD OUR nation's CURSE. 



DISCOED OUK NATION'S CURSE. 

Again the voice of Erin comes 

In sorrow o'er the main, 
Telling a tale of want and woe, 

Of bitterness and pain, — 
How long, Lord, shall Imman hearts 

Thus in the dust be trod ? 
How long shall men bow down like slaves, 

And fear a tyrant's nod ? 

Too long ye 've crawled with fettered limbs, 

'T is time for ye to rise 
When Erin's voice of anguish seems 

To pierce the listening skies ; 
Too long ye S^e hoped for time to break 

Or loose your heavy chains ; 
That hope has faded out, and now 

But one resource remains. 



God for our country and the right ! 

We know our cause is just ; 
Then for that country's sake unite, 

And put in Him your trust. 



DISCORD OUR nation's CURSE. 177 

No more like cravens tamely croucli, 

But let your tyrants feel 
Tliat when they give you iron laws, 

You *11 pay them back with steel. 

Let ancient feuds and petty strifes 

Like midnight gloom depart ; 
Discord or hate can never dwell 

In a true patriot's heart ; 
The really great and noble soul 

Thinks not of self alone — 
True to himself, the patriot makes 

His country's wrongs his own. 

Our land lies crushed and desolate 

Beneath the power of might. 
Because her sons, though brave and true, 

For her will not unite ; 
And though with anguish deep and strong 

They brood upon her woes. 
With all their sorrow for her wrongs. 

They are themselves her foes. 

Oh, must we see our own loved land. 

The country of our birth, 
Year after year a suppliant 'mong 

The nations of the earth ? 
And feel, although our bitter wrongs 

To tyranny we trace, 
9 ' 



178 DISCORD OUR nation's CURSE. 

That discord is the heaviest curse 
That rests upon our race ? 

Oh, brothers, friends, no more apart 

Like foes or strangers stand ; 
Join in a noble brotherhood 

To raise our trampled land. 
No longer let the shameful taunt 

Upon our race be thrown : 
*^ Ye fight the stranger's battles well. 

But can not fight your own." 

Cement the bonds of union now. 

And time new strength will bring ; 
'Tis by degrees the acorn grows 

To be the forest king ; 
Prepare the way by patient toil. 

And if, when great and strong, 
Ye seek a fitting time to strike. 

Ye shall not want it long. 

Hope not that time will loose the chains 

Around our nation cast — 
By force they bound her, and by force 

They must be burst at last ; 
And if ye would have Freedom bless 

Our Island of the West, 
'Tis on the rock of unity 

Her temple walls must rest. 



WRECKS. 179 



WKECKS. 

The grand old monarcli, Ocean, a mighty sceptre 

wields ; 
Proud ships, with, treasure laden, sweep o'er his 

trackless fields ; 
In playful scorn he bears them upon his crested 

waves. 
Or hurls them down in anger into his gloomy caves. 

He rises up in wonder when fierce the wild winds 

blow. 
With pealing voice of thunder, and hoary locks of 

snow ; 
His awful brow deep furrowed with stern and angry 

frown, 
As wrathfully he lashes the rocks that gird him 

round. 



Around his feet lie scattered, on dreary rocks and 

sands, 
The power his arm hath shattered, the wealth of 

many lands ; 



180 WRECKS. 

Wrecks of life, strength and beauty, whose dirge 

the sea-breeze moans, 
^Mong shattered spars and timbers lie heaped their 

bleaching bones. 

But life's rough, storm-tossed ocean has sadder 

wrecks to show — 
Proud hearts whose deep devotion is wasted all 

below. 
Who, chained to earthly treasures, forget to look 

above. 
Forget the Hand that guards them in mercy and 

in k>ve. 

Oh, when our weak earth-idols are shattered by 

our side. 
Or from our deep soul-worship turn off with scorn 

or pride, 
Alas for the heart's ruin ! an age of toil and tears 
Were powerless to restore us the wreck of wasted 

years. 

The wrecks of fallen empires, of worldly pomp and 
pride. 

Gleam through the sluggish waters of Time's resist- 
less tide — 

Sad monuments of grandeur and wasted power, 
they show 

That earthly bliss is fleeting, and all is wreck 
below. 



THE SONGS OF HOME. 181 

Oh, land of the immortal ! where grief or change 
ne'er come, 

Ope wide thy golden portals, and guide lost wan- 
derers home, 

Where fadeless flowers are blooming in fields by 
angels trod. 

And white -robed legions singing around the throne 
of God. 



THE SOXGS OF HOME. 

Come, sister, sit by my weary couch 

As the day's bright cheek grows pale, 
And sing me one of the sweet old songs 

We loved in our native vale ; 
The present floats like a dream away, 

And thoughts of the past will come ; 
Fond memories*cling round the vanished days — 

Oh, sing me a song of home. 

The scenes we loved in our childhood days, 
When life was so bright and fair. 

Ere Time's rude pencil on heart or brow 
Had written a line of care. 

Shine brightly in memory's magic glass. 
Though far from them now we roam, 



182 THE SONGS OF HOME. 

As over the lonely heart-strings creep 
The strains of a song of home. 



The ancient forests, in changing robes, 

And the guardian mountains grand. 
That tower in haughty majesty 

O'er the breast of our native land. 
The sunny valleys, the lake's green shore, 

Where we often used to roam, 
All rise in beauty before me now. 

As I list to the songs of home. 

What happy evenings long gone by 

Do those dear old songs recall. 
When the echoes of glad voices rang 

From our cheerful cottage wall ; 
Loved faces far from our sight to-night, 

Or moldering in the tomb. 
Come back with their old, familiar smiles. 

Called forth by the songs of home. 

The chilling grasp of death's icy hand 

Is closing around my heart. 
And here alone in a stranger land 

In sorrow we 're doomed to part ; 
Far from the graves where our kindred sleep 

They'll hollow my lonely tomb, 
Yet my heart goes back to the dear old days-^ 

Oh, sing me a song of home. 



SISTER AGNES. 188 

When lifers pale lamjD has at last gone out, 

And its joys and woes have flown, 
May we hear the angel choirs that sing 

Around the eternal throne ; 
And, oh, how sweet in those joyous strains 

Will the glad notes be that come 
Prom well loved voices that long ago 

Sang the dear old songs of home. 



SISTER AGNES. 

There is a home where oft is missed 

A frank and joyous smile, 
A fair young face undimmed by care, 

A heart untouched by guile, 
And thoughtful eyes that seemed to see 

Into the future far. 
As through the midnight darkness looks 

The clear eye of a star. 

To that young heart sweet Mercy spoke 
From heaven's bright portals high, 

And in their weariness she heard 
Earth's suffering children cry, 



184 SISTER AGNES. 

And, bidding friends and liome farewell, 
She cast life's pleasures down 

To follow tlie meek, lowly One 
Who wore the thorny crown. 

Far from the loving hearts at home. 

Far from her native land. 
In patient cheerfnlness she toiled 

With brave, untiring hand. 
And many a sin- stained soul looked up 

To her in hope and love, 
And by her saintly life was led 

To think on heaven above. 



The weary sufferer, tossing wild 

Upon the couch of pain. 
With aching limbs, and throbbing heart. 

And fever-heated brain. 
Would listen for her soothing voice, 

And grateful glances cast 
Upon her calm and pitying face, 

And bless her as she passed. 

She fell beneath the fearful scourge 

Whose pestilential breath 
Sweeps o'er the sunny Southern land 

As with the wings of death ; 
Where friends from friends in terror fled, 

Her fearless step had come, 



SISTER AGNES. 185 

And 'mid the dying and the dead 
The angels called her home. 

Her hands are folded from their works 

Of mercy and of love — 
One saint the less on earth helow, 

One angel more ahove ; 
Sad tears bedew the lowly grave 

Where, peacefully and calm, 
Far from her native land, she sleeps, 

Where waves the Southern palm. 

Young martyr at sweet Mercy's shrine. 

In thy pure spirit's worth 
We see that Eden's loveliness 

Has not all fled from earth. 
While, day hy day, life's thorny paths 

Are yet by angels trod. 
Whose pure lives win our stubborn souls 

To follow them to God. 



186 THE BEAUTIFUL LAND. 



THE BEAUTIFUL LAND. 

Beyond the dark river, whose sullen waves 

Are carrying evermore 
Their freights of beauty and hope and love 

Away from this mortal shore, 
Stretch flower-crowned valleys green and fair, 

Where glorious mansions stand, 
Whose gold gates open to welcome all 

Who come to that beautiful land. 

Oh, there no storm-king's scowling brow 

E'er saddens the eye of noon. 
But lilies wave and roses blow 

On the breast of an endless June ; 
While through bright bowers of fadeless l:loom 

Blow breezes soft and bland. 
Breathing immortal youth on all 

Who come to that beautiful land. 

A flood of glory whose waves of light 
Our earth-dimmed sight would drown, 

Flows there from the brow that here below 
Was pierced with a thorny crown ; 



THE BEAUTIFUL LAND. 187 

Witli victor's crowns on their radiant brows, 
And palms in their stainless hands, 

Stand round Him those who through tears and 
blood 
Have passed to that beautiful land. 

There too are dwelling our worshipped ones 

Who walk upon earth no more ; 
As we strive through griefs dark veil to see 

The light of that distant shore. 
We catch a gleam of their snowy robes, 

As they glide o'er the crystal strand, 
And beckon us over death's silent sea 

Away to that beautiful land. 

Soon shall we pass from earth away 

On that dark, unebbing tide, 
Alone with the boatman cold and pale, 

In quest of the farther side ; 
But, oh, what joy on the shore to feel 

The clasp of a friendly hand 
That cold distrust can never estrange 

Or chill in that beautiful land ! 



i 88 THE BIRD FROM PARADISE, 



THE BIRD FEOM PARADISE. 

A LEGEND. 

By a forest of tlie Eliineland, 

Many a hundred years ago, 
Dwelt a band of lioly brothers, 

In an abbey dark and low ; 
Hardened were their hands by labor, 

For from dawn to set of sun 
Busily they toiled, and scarcely 

Deemed with day their duty done. 



] tugged was the soil, and sterile — 

Fern and thistle, heath and thorn, 
Must by patience be uprooted 

Ere it bore the yellow corn ; 
Even that was often carried 

To the peasant's humble shed, 
While the acorns of the forest 

Served the holy monks for bread. 

In that quiet, busy household 
There was one beloved of all — 

Cheerful, patient, self-denying. 
Ever thoughtful Brother Paul ; 



THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 189 

Living not for self, but others, 

All Ids tliouglits to God were given. 

And the beaut ons world around bim 
Only raised bis beart to beaven. 

Gazing on tbe broad blue beavens, 

Waving woods, and flowery sod, 
Reading tbe grand book of Nature, 

Written by tbe band of God, 
Oft be prayed tbe great All- Father 

In His bounty to bestow 
One brief gleam of heaven's glory 

On His servant here below. 



Thus he prayed one glorious evening 

In the golden summer time, 
Leaning on bis spade to listen 

To the distant abbey chime ; 
Seated on his blazing chariot, 

Slowly westward Day had rolled, 
While bis wand, lil^e that of Midas, 

Tinged the forest boughs with gold. 

Musing on the varied beauties 

Spread beneath that summer sky, 

Suddenly a newer glory 

Burst upon bis wondering eye : 

A bright bird of radiant plumage. 
As if bathed in morning's light. 



190 THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 

Seated on a bough, beside bim, 
Dazzled bis bewildered sigbt. 

Soon as from tbe abbey turret 

Ceased tbe Angelus to ring, 
Tbe strange bird of dazzling beauty 

On its bougb began to sing. 
•Brotber Paul, entranced, stood listening ; 

Glorious strains be oft bad beard, 
But none like tbe clear, melodious 

Music of tbe stranger bird. 

Sucb a grand, barmonious torrent 

Of sweet sounds bad never rang 
Over eartb since wandering angels 

By tbe streams of Eden sang ; 
Nature held ber breatb to listen, 

Husbed tbe breeze tbe bougbs among, 
Bade tbe murmuring brook be silent, 

Wbile sbe beard tbat wondrous song. 

Soon tbe beauteous songster flitted 

Tbrougb tbe woods from tree to tree, 
And tbe monk, encbanted, followed. 

Drinking in its melody, 
Cautious lest tbe dead leaves round bim 

By bis footsteps migbt be stirred, 
Dreading lest bis very breatbing 

Sbould disturb tbe stranger bird. 



THE BIRD FROM PARADI.SE. 191 

Onward, onward, through the forest, 

Did the glorious songster fly. 
Till at last its pinions rested 

On an oak tree towering high ; 
There the monk, with soul enraptured, 

Cast himself upon the ground. 
While sweet song, in liquid gushes, 

Thrilled the listening air around. 

And his soul, entranced with pleasure. 

Listening to that glorious strain, 
Sat with folded wings that never 

Wished to visit earth again. 
But at last the vision faded. 

Ceased the music's magic spell. 
And he heard the silvery chiming 

Of the distant abhey bell. 

Starting up, he gazed around him. 

In the holy vesper light, 
But the songster's splendid pinions 

Flashed no longer on his sight ; 
Then he turned his footsteps homeward, 

Sighing that the witching lay=, 
Which had thrilled with joy hi8 being. 

Should so soon have passed away. 

But new wonders met his vision, — 
For where he had left at morn 



192 THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 

Broad green woods, and thorns and brambles, 
Now lay fields of golden corn ; 

And the white walls of a village. 
With its gleaming spires in view. 

Stood where late the wildwood blossoms 
Drank the fragrant morning dew. 

Wearily he sought the abbey, 

But its rude walls too were gone ; 
In its place a stately mansion 

Reared its towers of polished stone ; 
At its gates he stood bewildered, 

Looking round in pained surprise. 
Fearing that some evil spirit 

Cast a glamor o'er his eyes. 

The familiar, kindly visage 

Of the porter was not there ; 
A strange monk the portal opened. 

Viewing him with curious air ; 
All the brothers there were strangers,— 

Not a face that he had known 
Met his view : it seemed his brethren 

With their antique walls had fiown 

Brother Paul, dismayed, looked round him. 
''Unknown brothers, speak,'' cried he, 
*' Whence have come these wondrous changes 
And strange faces that I see ? 



THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 193 

Lead me to the Abbot Anselm, 

Wbom I left at matin bour; 
Over bim the demon* s magic 

Surely can have bad no power.'' 

Wby tbose looks of blank amazement ? 

Can be credit wbat be bears ? 
'' Brotber, boly Fatber Anselm 

Has been dead four bundred years ! " 
Tben was rent tbe veil of ages 

Prom before bis startled eyes — 
He bad listened to tbe singing 

Of tbe bird from Paradise. 

''Great All-Patber/' cried be, sinking 

On bis knees, '' tben Tbou bast given 
To Tby servant wbat be prayed for — 

Here on eartb a glimpse of beaven ; 
How encbanting was tbat music 

Wbicb made rolling ages seem 
But a few brief, sunny moments, 

But a transient, blissful dream. 



** Now, indeed, my days are ended. 
And my longing soul would fain 
Leave its clay, tbat it may listen 
To tbat blessed song again. 



To tbe eye but once permitted 
9^ 



Heaven's glories to heboid , 



194 THE FIRESIDE AT HOME. 

Earth, however bright and lovely, 
Seems a desert dark and cold." 



Lord, we thank Thee that Thy mercy 

Holds the blue veil of the sky 
Over earth. Thy dazzling splendor 

To shut out from mortal eye ; 
Could our pilgrim gaze but dimly 

Half Thy deathless glory see. 
Life would be a dreary burden. 

And content from earth would flee. 



THE FIKESIDE AT HOME. 

When, tossed on the billows of life's dreary ocean, 

We drift o'er the waters afar. 
And vainly look up to tbe storm-clouds above us 

To catch the pale beam of a star, — 
When sorrow's dark veil, like the wing of the 
tempest. 

Overshadows our path as we roam, 
One heart- cheering beacon shines out through the 
darkness — 

The glow of the fireside at home. 



THE FIRESIDE AT HOME. 195 

Oft back to tlie light of the dear days departed 

Does meiQory tenderly turn, 
And for the sweet peace and contentment that 
crowned them, 

The heart must unceasingly yearn ; 
For then, when the night over valley and mountain 

Had folded her mantle of gloom, 
Loved faces, so dear that their smiles were our sun- 
shine. 

Encircled the fireside at home. 

Oh, friends long departed, oh, bright days long 
vanished. 

When back to the years that are fled 
We turn, from the joys and the woes of the present, 

To think of the loved and the dead. 
The light wing of Fancy with fairy touch brushes 

The dust from the doors of the tomb. 
And once more unites us — the dead and the scat- 
tered. 

Around the bright fireside at home. 

Oh, when the dim twilight of death is approaching, 

Our wearisome journey near done. 
And faintly and cold o'er our closing eyes gleameth 

The pale beams of life's setting sun, — 
Then, Father Almighty, across the dark valley, 

Its doubts and its shadows and gloom. 
We pray that the light of Thy love and Thy mercy 

May guide us at last to our home. 



196 MAGDALEN. 



MAGDALEN. 

Lo ! Israel's erring dangliter, lowly kneeling 
At Jesus' feet, with heart repentant bowed, 

Her beauteous eyes upraised in mute appealing, 
Amid the scandalized, self-righteous crowd. 

The haughty Pharisees look on in horror, — 
A dreadful sacrilege it seems to them 

To see this fallen child of sin and error 
Approach a Prophet of Jerusalem. 

Unmindful of the scowling brows around her, 
Her tears fall on the Saviour's feet like rain ; 

Their crystal torrents burst the links that bound 
her 
A captive, fettered by sin's heavy chain. 

The glossy waves of her once jewelled tresses 
To wipe His sacred feet far down unroll ; 

His calm, mild glance of sweet forgiveness blesses 
And sheds a balm upon her sin-sick soul. 



DEATH. 197 

From countless sins that barred the way to heaven 
The Saviour's lips have uttered her release, — 

Because she has much loved, much is forgiven ; 
She hears the blest words, '''Daughter, go in 
peace." 

Cold, worldly heart, walled in by pride unbending, 
If thou wouldst listen to those accents sweet. 

Thou, from thy vain self-righteousness descending. 
Must, like Magdalen, kneel at Jesus' feet. 



DEATH. 

He is marching over our mourning land, — 
The withering touch of his icy hand 
Leaves blight and ruin, none may withstand 
The glare of his ghastly eye. 

He tears the robes from the moanina: trees. 
His breath is felt in each wailing breeze, 
With raven pinions he sweeps the seas, 
Where the tempest's arrows fly. 

He casts a gloom o'er the autumn days ; 
His skeleton fingers weave a haze 



198 DEATH. 

To dim the light of the golden rays 

That gleam o'er the earth's cold breast. 

«■ 
He is seen where war's red lightnings tlash, . 

Where roll its thunders with fearful crash, 

Where steeds rear madly, and sabres clash. 

Where brave hearts sink to rest. 

He clogs the sentinel's weary feet, 
While pitiless storms around him beat, 
As he shivering w^alks throiigh snow and sleet 
On the mountains drear and lone. 

He sits by the camp-fire's fitful light. 
Where strong men sink 'neath the fever-blight, 
And sick hearts yearn for the welcome sight 
Of far-off friends and home. 



O'er marsh and mountain and hill and stream 
His eyes on the moving columns gleam. 
With a glance as cold as the moon's pale beam 
On a heap of drifted snow. 

Some halt by the way at his fearful call, 
And the fading leaves are their funeral pall. 
As tliey drop with a sound like the damp mold's 
fall 
On a coffin dark and low. 



POLAND. 199 

But not unmourned is their dreamless sleep ; 
A grateful Nation shall o'er them weep, 
And ever fresh in her memory keep 
The deeds of her heroes hrave. 

Where'er they perish, on sea or shore. 
By pale disease, or where cannons roar, 
As sacred altars forevermore 

She '11 honor her soldiers' graves. 

1861. 



POLAND. 

Oh, Poland, once more is thy proud soul awakened, 
Once more through thy valleys war's shrill trum- 
pet rings ; 
The free, martial spirit that time can not conquer. 
Leaps forth from the graves of thy old warrior- 
kings. 

Again the true sons of brave sires have arisen 
To sever thy fetters or perish for thee ; 

The lash of the despot, the torture and prison. 
At last have aroused them to die or be free. 



200 POLAND. 

From Cracow's gray tombs, Avhere the bones )f the 
mighty 

Are crumbling in silence to dust and decay, 
The voice of the past speaks of long-faded glory, 

And thrills the defenders of Poland to-day. 

Prom Warsaw's red field, where the spiri.s of 
heroes 
Went out in their life-blood, in darkness and 
gloom. 
The war-cry that bursts forth for Poland and Free- 
dom, 
Might bid Kosciusko come back from the tomb. 

From castle and cottage the patriots gather 
To meet the oppressor in war's fearful stiife. 

To strike once again for the rights of their nation. 
For homes and for altars, for freedom and life. 



Arise, Sobieski ! awake from th}' slumber, 
Or send back thy spirit to lead, as of yore. 

The conquering arms of thy country, and crown her 
With victory's laurels — a nation once more. 



Oh, birth-place of martyrs to God and to Freedom, 
The souls of the heroes who died for thy right 

Are surely imploring the Sovereign of armiej 
To smile on thy efforts in Liberty's fight. 



THE WAVE OF TIME. 201 

I love thee, O Poland, thou ancient of nations. 
Twin sister of Erin in suffering and faith ; 

Like her, through long ages of fierce persecution. 
The Cross thou hast clung to in suffering and 
death. 

God bless thee, thou land long oppressed, yet un- 
conquered ! 

May Freedom soon smile on thy sanctified sod ; 
No more may the dust of thy martyrs and heroes 

By foot of invader or tyrant be trod. 



THE WAVE OF TIME. 

The tide of time rolls swiftly by, 

But ne'er flows back again. 
And though for vanished days we sigh, 

Our grieving is in vain ; 
The matin of the rising day, 

The silvery evening chime. 
The sounds we love, all float away 

Upon the wave of time. 

Of what avail are earthly joys. 
Or worldly honors vain — 
10 



302 THE WAVE OF TIME. 

The pleasure whicli true peace destroys, 
And leavetli naught but pain ? 

Life here is but a pilgrimage 
Unto a fairer clime, 

Where all past sorrows buried are 
Beneath the wave of time. 

May we while here on earth aspire 

To reach the brighter world, 
Where night's dark banner o'er the day 

Will never be unfurled. 
Where angel hands sweep golden harps, 

And seraph-songs sublime 
Gush in glad strains of silvery sound 

Beyond the wave of time. 

Oh, may we fix our hearts upon 

The joys that ne'er decay, 
Nor heed the fading things of earth. 

That soon must pass away ; 
The fleeting joys that here we prize 

Will with ourselves decline. 
And soon, forgotten, we shall sink 

Beneath the wave of time. 



THE ENCHANTED CAVE. 203 



THE ENCHANTED CAVE. 

Amid the bleak, heath- covered hills of the West, 

Oft swept by the wild ocean-blast. 
That seems, as it shrieks round the peasant's rude 
shed, 

A cry o'er the graves of the past, 
The cottagers tell, in the long winter nights. 

The tale of a slumber-chained band, 
Who rest in their armor, awaiting the call 

To strike off the chains of their land. 

For ages they 've slept, while their country has 
groaned. 

Bowed down by the weight of her woes. 
But still is unuttered the magical word 

Whose spell is to break their repose ; 
Though heroes have struggled and martyrs have 
bled. 

Still Erin must suffer and weep. 
Until, from the depths of that wild rocky cave, 

These warriors are roused from their sleep. 

The peasant's dark eyes often flash with delight 
To hear that quaint legend of yore, 



204 THE ENCHANTED CAVE. 

And fondly he hopes for the time when that word 
Will peal o'er his ocean-girt shore ; 

For when from the heart of the nation it bursts, 
Each hillside and valley and glen 

Will leap into life, like that magical cave, 
With myriads of steel-girded men. 

Where'er in the wide world that call shall be heard, 

O'er prairie and forest and wave. 
If there the true heart of a Celt can be found, 

There too is a magical cave, 
Where, from the dull sleep of inaction, shall rise 

Stern warriors, trusty and strong. 
To strike for their country, and pour out their blood 

To wash off the stains of her wrong. 

That watchword is ''Freedom," — Oh, once let it 
ring 

Out o'er the blue waves of the sea, 
From people united to conquer or die. 

And soon shall our country be free. 
Her fetters shall burst with a crash at the sound ; 

The strength of her tyrants shall fail ; 
Then, henceforth let ''Union and Liberty" be 

The cry of the sons of the Gael. 



TO LIZZIE. 205 



TO LIZZIE. 

God bless thee, Lizzie, darling. 

Where'er thy footsteps roam ; 
May angels guard thy pathway, 

And fill with light thy home ; 
May time, that changeth all things, 

As gently pass o'er thee 
As skims the white gull's pinions 

Across the sleeping sea. 

May true, unchanging friendship 

Make bright thy passing hours ; 
Forever may thy pathway 

Be strewn with fairest flowers ; 
God shield thy young heart ever 

From sin and care and woe. 
And make thy earthly dwelling 

A Paradise below. 

Should e'er a shade of sorrow 
Across thy sunshine glide, 

Mayst thou forget it, thinking 
Upon the Crucified; 



206 TO LIZZIE. 

Remembering, should ever 
Hope's rosy light grow dim, 

That sufferings borne with patience 
But make us more like Him. 

Life is so brief and changing 

That at the last 't will seem 
As if our earthly journey 

Were but a fleeting dream, — 
And, oh, may it be ever 

A happy dream to thee, 
And in the land of angels 

May thy awaking be. 

Though on the world's broad ocean 

Our life-barks drift apart. 
Thy mem'ry will be ever 

Shrined fondly in my heart. 
Once more, dear friend, God bless thee ! 

Mayst thou on earth be blest. 
And angel pinions waft thee 

At last to endless rest. 



THE DEAD HERO. 201 



THE DEAD HERO. 

Dead, do they tell us ! or are we but dreaming ? 

Surely those terrible words are not true ! 
Surely our noble and fearless-souled chieftain 

Can not forever have passed from our view ! 

Yes, he has gone with his life-work uniSnished, — 
Grone from the true hearts that loved him so 
well ; 

As the bright sun of his fame was but rising, 
'Neath the proud banner of Freedom he fell, 

Never again shall he flash forth amongst us 
Words like the lightning, clear, brilliant and 
strong, 

Nerving the hearts of the listening thousands 
Sternly to strive Vainst oppression and wrong. 

Never again, where the battle is raging, 

Shall he the Green Flag wave proudly on high, 
Rallying round it the brave sons of Erin, 
'Neath the old Sunburst to conquer or die. 



208 THE DEAD HERO. 

Oh, what high hopes and what bright dreams of 
glory 

Fondly we twined round that spirit so brave ! 
Dark to our eyes seems the future of Erin, 

Since he is wrapped in the gloom of the grave. 

Erin, thy sad eyes, like stars in the distance, 
Look o'er the sea through the mist of their tears ; 

Still round thy brow is the dark cypress twining, 
Closer it grows with the vanishing years. 

True hearts that strove for thy weal are departing, 
Palling like leaves when the autumn winds moan ; 

Scarce are the tears for the loss of one hero 
Dried on thy cheek, ere another is gone. 

Dear to thy heai^t was the love and devotion 
Of this brave exile who suffered for thee ; 

And in the ranks of thy great hero -martyrs 

Proudly thou 'It place him when chainless and 
free. 

God-gifted spirit, though with us no longer. 
From the bright home of the blessed above 

Earthward we know thou wilt often turn fondly. 
Back to the sad martyr-land of thy love. 

When the great day of our land's resurrection 
Dawns, o'er her armies thy spirit shall glow 



THE PASSING DAYS. 209 

And the grand soul of hero in heaven 
Lead on to conquest the heroes below. 

Soldier and martyr, thy conflicts are over, 
Angels shall waft thee to regions of light, 

And from thy grave will the watchwords ring ever : 
Erin and Liberty ! God and the Right ! 



THE PAvSSING DAYS. 

How swift and noiseless, on viewless pinions, 
The sunny hours of life flit past ; 

The priceless moments drift by as idly 
As falling leaves in the autumn blast. 

We turn aside from life's toils and duties 
To mourn the hours forever gone ; 

We let the present glide unheeded. 

And sigh for days that may never dawn. 

We vainly dream of some bright ideal, 
Some Spirit-Eden of light and bloom, 

To draw the soul from the boundless real 
That must await it beyond the tomb. 



210 THE PASSING DAYS. 

He from whose breath leaps the passing ages, ^^ 
Who bids them onward forever roll, 

Alone can answer the spirit-cravings 
That ever spring in the deathless soul. 

Oh, may we grasp at the fleeting moments. 
And make each day, as He bids it come, 

A golden round in life's upward ladder. 
To lift our footsteps the nearer home. 

Life here should be a harmonious poem, 

Whose breathing numbers could never die — 

A song of praise, on whose strains melodious 
The soul might soar to its home on high. 

If no harsh note mars its mellow music, 
No jarring discord of hate or wrong 

Disturbs the flow of the magic numbers 

That sweetly blend in that deathless song, — 

Then, when our life-hymn at last is finished, 
When sleeps the clay in its kindred sod. 

Rejoicing angels shall chant its anthem 
Before the throne of the Author — God. 



TO AN AGED FRIEND, 211 



TO AN AGED FRIEND. 

Oh, aged friend, beloved in early days, 

Deep in my heart thy memory lingers yet. 
Thy dear face follows me through life's rough ways. 

Thy love and kindness I can ne'er forget ; 
And should this broad, bright world to me become 

A dreary waste, a dark and stormy sea. 
One beacon -light will cheer me through the gloom : 

My strong, unchanging love and faith in thee. 

Dear friend, each furrow traced by Time's rude plow 

Upon thy loved and venerable face. 
Sketched by the faithful hand of Memory now. 

For me invests it with a reverent grace. 
And makes it lovelier, because more dear. 

Than beauty's rounded cheek with rosy glow, 
And youth's soft curls to me will ne'er appear 

More beautiful than thy smooth locks of snow. 

What pleasure it was by thy side to sit 

In summer evenings, 'neath the whispering leaves, 

And watch with thee the wheeling swallows flit 
Into their sheltered nests beneath the eaves, 



212 TO AN AGED FRIEND. 

Or breathe my troubles in tby kindly ear, 
Or tell my joys and fancies vain and wild, 

For thou wert not too great and wise to hear 
The little woes and pleasures of a child. 

How oft I 've leaned my head upon thy knee. 

When seated by the hearth-fire's ruddy light, 
To hear the tales so sweetly told by thee, 

Of gentle fairy, or of wandering sprite ; 
Ah, those were happy days, — but all too fast 

They vanished, giving place to darker years. 
And now they seem, when glancing to the past. 

Like sunny islands in a sea of tears. 

O faithful heart, O true, unchanging friend, 

God's blessings fall around thee every day, 
And may Be in His love sweet angels send. 

Who for thy aged feet will smooth life's way, 
And kindly, gently, lead thee by the hand. 

As. thou hast* led me oft in days gone by. 
Till, in^their gladdest strains, a seraph-band 

Shall sing thy welcome to thy home on high. 



REST. 213 



REST. 

Wearily, wearily the slow, dull hours ' 

With leaden feet are plodding on their way ; 

Drearily, drearily, through gloom and showers, 
Sinks into rest the tired and drowsy day. 

Gloomily, gloomily the dark clouds gather 

Their inky folds across the sky's gray breast ; 

The world seems weary, and my spirit. Father, 
Is weary, too, and cries to Thee for rest. 

Sullenly, sullenly the waves are breaking 
In heavy splashes on the sounding shore ; 

Earnestly, earnestly my heart is making 
A search for rest, but finds it nevermore. 

Pleadingly, pleadingly to Thee it turneth, 
As to the ark returned the weary dove ; 

Longingly, longingly my spirit yearneth 
To find a peaceful haven in Thy love. 

Rest — give me rest, O Father, in Thy kindness, 
Not from life's toils and duties, but from all 



214 EEST. 

The doubts and fears and woful spirit-blindness 
Tbat veil Thy face, and hold my soul in thrall. 

Oh, life is bright and beautiful, but ever 

Some ghostly shadow o'er my path will come, 

Reminding me that real rest is never 

Found out of Thee, the heart's true hope and 
home. 

Cheerfully, cheerfully the world is smiling, 

E'en while it makes the soul a mock and jest. 

And with its vain, false pleasures is beguiling 
The eoul from Thee, its only peace and rest. 

Trustingly, trustingly before Thy altar 
I lay my load of weariness and pain ; 

Soon some weak fancy bids my spirit falter. 
Some vain thought summons it to earth again. 

Mournfully, mournfully, but, oh, how vainly 
This ever-fleeing phantom I pursue ; 

It slips from my weak grasp, thus showing plainly 
That, 'mid all changes. Thou alone art true. 

Hopefully, hopefully at last I gather 

My faults and follies for Thine eye to see ; 

Give toils and trials if Thou wilt, O Father, 
But let my soul find endless rest in Thee. 



A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 215 



A HUNDKED YEARS FROM NOW. 

The surging sea of human life forever onward rolls, 
Bearing to the eternal shore each day its freight of 

souls ; 
But though our bark sails bravely on, pale Death 

sits at the prow, 
And few shall know we ever lived a hundred years 

from now. 

Oh, mighty human brotherhood, why fiercely war 
and strive, 

While God's great world has ample space for every 
thing alive ? 

Broad fields, uncultured and unclaimed, are waiting 
for the plow 

Of progress, that should make them bloom a hun- 
dred years from now. 

Why should we toil so earnestly in life's short, 

narrow span, 
On golden stairs to climb so high above our brother 

man ? 



216 A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 

Why blindly at an eartUy • 'sfirme.- our souls in 
homage bow? -;:::: :.\ 

Our gods will rust, ourselves be dust, a hundred 
years from now. 

Why prize so much the world's applause? why 

dread so much its blame ? 
A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of . f^m^ ;„ 
The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn that 

dyes with shame the brow, : ' 

Will be as long forgotten dreams a hundred years 

from now. 

Earth's empires rise and fall, Time ! like break- 
ers on thy shore ; 

They rush upon thy rocks of doom, are seen, and 
seen no more ; 

The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's 
radiant brow, '. 

Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred years 
from now. 

Thou before whose sleepless eyes the past and 
future stand 

An open page, like babes we cling to Tty pro- 
tecting hand; •_:.■"' 

Change, sorrow, death, are naught to us if we may 
safely bow 

Beneath the shadow of Thy throne a hundred years 
from now'.'* 




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